Riptide
by LividVivid
Summary: It's the one where Veronica surfs and Heather doesn't. Surfing AU with a twist.
1. Chapter 1

The worst part about seventh period is that you can hear the waves crashing on the beach just outside the window. A treeline and about half a mile of land separates Westerburg's hallowed halls from the roar of waves charging in from the Pacific and crashing onto the North Shore. It's an easy ride down from school to the beach. Hell, if I had a car, I could just throw it in neutral and roll all the way there. Some life that would be.

"Sawyer!" I jerk my head away from the window with a start.

"Is the riveting life and death of Julius Caesar not entertaining enough for you?" Mr. Hall's mousey voice was laughably annoying and weird on its own, but could be alarming when you weren't expecting to hear it in the middle of daydreams.

I shrug, settling back into the reality of class in front of me. "It's certainly interesting," I offered, "but also very far away and very, very old." My disinterest here is feigned; I've been reading Greek and Roman texts for years now and know a good bit about why their thoughts might be worth discussing, but longer, more drawn out answers are not conducive to being left alone. And god, there was nothing I wanted more than to just be left alone.

He chortles with the kind of insincerity you might expect to hear from a well-meaning relative over the holidays when they aren't sure what to make of your new views on politics.

"Right you are Miss Sawyer, but the knowledge you can pick up here can help you across a myriad of other disciplines. Now, back to the lecture. Contrary to what you may believe, Caesar's rise to power was incredibly well orchestrated and slow…"

I'm back to tuning him out again, opting instead to take up the role of student proctologist. I usually find it much easier to imagine myself studying the life of a high school student instead of living it. Looking around the room, I see the familiar faces of those who have been acquaintances of mine for twelve years now, give or take a few. Take Elizabeth White Hammer, or "Liz", the "more chill" name she insists on. She's got a fall birthday, like me, and you can tell when she's celebrating because she'll be stoned out of her mind. She's not anyone I associate with, but given the eleven years and two months of grade school we've spent together and dynamics of a small town, I feel like we may as well be best friends. She's asleep and propped up in her chair with her mouth open, breathing loudly and threatening a snore with every rise and fall of her chest. She fidgets in her sleep and elicits a muffled laugh from our classmates. I can't blame them— after years of her antics, I'm pretty desensitized, but the first time I saw it, I almost split my sides laughing.

"Looks like Hammer's gotten hammered again," a breathy whisper observes, prompting another, slightly louder round of laughs from the middle of the classroom. Heather Duke smiles, proud of her joke, beaten to death though it may be, and Kurt Kelly beside her tucks his mouth into his elbow to muffle his childlike giggling. My eyes roll involuntarily and I fight to hold in a loud sigh.

After spending so many years battling through the public school system in classes with her, any soft spot I may have had for Heather Duke has been thoroughly and completely covered by scar tissue. Smart. Pretty. Petty. Heather Duke once was someone I felt could be a kindred spirit, another academically motivated girl who didn't mind stuffing her face in a good book instead of a football player's crotch. I soon found out that while we run on the same wavelength intellectually, we differ wildly in approach. I'm sure her mean streak is due largely to her low self-esteem, but when she's sneering from across the room, pointing and guffawing at other, "fatter" girls, it's easy to forget that. It's no secret Heather Duke thinks food is so nice she needs to see it twice, as evidenced by her daily bathroom trips right after lunch. I'm certain other girls at Westerburg have started worshiping the porcelain god to imitate her, but rather than taking it as flattery, Heather Duke sees this as a fantastic weak spot in their psyche to take advantage of.

I don't hate Heather Duke because she's bulimic. I hate her because she's a hypocrite.

Her on-again off-again boy toy, the part time quarterback and full time idiot Kurt, doesn't seem to mind that at all, though. Duke's got Kurt by the balls so tightly I'm surprised she hasn't yanked them off yet. Given their looks and combined prowess, the two of them very well may rule the school in some alternate universe. I feel ya there, Duke.

"We, as history students, must remember that Caesar's actions, bombastic and fantastical though they may have been, ultimately led to the demise of the Roman Empire," Hall continues from the front, ignoring the noise from the students in the back. "His approach to governing was brutal and, in retrospect, woefully ineffective. His assassination by Brutus and company only serves as further proof that..." Blah, blah, and blah. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together knows who Brutus is. Discussing it in class borders on insulting.

It's times like this I wish someone, anyone I even mildly tolerated was in this class. Betty Finn, my closest friend and confidante, hasn't had a class with me for going on two years now. Given my AP-loaded schedule and her… slightly more open one, we're stuck only seeing each other during lunch. After-school is fair game, though, and given her parents run a fantastic surf shop that's practically in my backyard, we're never separated long enough to miss each other too much. She's a real master with an ebony pencil, a true and serious artist with true and serious talent, so some days "hanging out" is just me carving waves and her translating anything and everything in sight to sketches and still lifes. How detailed and smooth her work is never ceases to amaze me, and at one point I nagged her endlessly to teach me how she does it. These lessons ended in near disaster, but we did find out I have a knack for forgery. "It's a type of art!" Betty said, smiling sympathetically at me one day after several failed still lifes and one perfectly signed permission slip for a field trip. "Not to mention probably more profitable than the kind of stuff I make." Since then, I've used my powers of deception for pranks and "get out of jail free" cards in the form of unlimited hall passes. I could probably do more with it to help "the greater good", but I'm not convinced any such thing exists at Westerburg.

Heather and Kurt are still at it, cackling loud enough now that it's hard to hear whatever Hall is rambling about. He might actually call them out this time, given how—

"Shut up, Heather."

The command, though whispered, immediately cuts through every other sound in the room. Seats rustle and students shift uneasily, waking up from the lull and monotony of another lecture. Kurt turns back to the front of the room as if hypnotized. Duke visibly shrinks.

"Sorry, Heather."

Red lips quirk upward in what seems to be a cruel attempt at a smile.

Ah, the one obstacle keeping Duke from her dreams of a dictatorship. The Caesar to her Brutus. Heather Chandler.


	2. Chapter 2

I like to think I'm a pretty brave person. I'm not scared of the dark; I have no form of stage fright; small spaces don't bother me; I'll charge head first into double-overhead waves at the drop of a hat.

Heather Chandler, however, makes my blood run cold.

First and foremost, she's beautiful. Stunning. Absolutely gorgeous. If we didn't live in a small town on an island in the middle of the ocean, she would have been scouted for Victoria's Secret by now. Cindy Crawford would be asking her for makeup advice. Naturally blonde hair, thick and wavy, frames her face like the piece of art that it is. Sharp jawline and features. Dark brown brows that seem stuck in a permanent slant, the dictionary definition of "resting bitch face." Her eyes are light blue and lack the emotion that so many others express. Granted, I'm kinda guessing here; I've never held eye contact with her. I'm pretty sure looking her in the eyes would cause some form of painful and excruciating death anyway, given even glancing her way is enough to derail trains of thought.

She straightens her back, victorious but not quite smug, and crosses her legs.

God, those legs—

Right, right, trains of thought. Heather Chandler has single-handedly forced me to question both my sexuality and my sanity. She's been in all of my AP classes through the years right along with Duke, though how she's managed to pass them and keep going is beyond me. Duke at least has a notepad and pen out and tries to pay attention in class, Heather seems to use hers only to send notes over to whomever she needs to extract gossip from. Her relationship with the rest of our school is… complex, to say the least. Not exactly sociable but not exactly isolated, Heather seems to favor using her clique as a proxy for keeping in touch with everyone else. The times I've heard her speak to anyone whose name isn't Heather have almost exclusively been as formalities: asking questions for the daily poll in the lunchroom, requesting favors from various student organizations to one end or another, currying favor with teachers… and, of course, massacring anyone who tries to fuck with her. It speaks volumes that the best way I have to gauge her intelligence comes from how clever her insults are. Heather never forgets facts about people and loves nothing more than pulling them out of nowhere to cut someone down to size. Last year's response to Lisa's mini rebellion before Homecoming may be one of the best (re: worst) examples of this.

Lisa Woodford, a longtime classmate of ours and daughter of a true blue military man, had decided she'd had enough of Heather Chandler and ran for Homecoming Queen against her. Why she did this I don't think I'll ever know. As a member of the student government, Lisa had access to the voting boxes and managed to rig the election in her favor. When the winner was called up to the stage, "Lisa Woodford?!", she had the nerve to look Heather dead in the eye and smile. Heather smiled back and followed her up to the stage, gracefully nodding as the runner-up's princess crown was placed atop her head by shaking hands. The entire audience stood in silence, mouths agape and waiting for something, anything to happen— but nothing did. They left the stage and Heather turned to Lisa, teeth still showing behind blood red lips.

"Congratulations on your win, Lisa. Really, I do hope it helps you." So, Heather hugs her— hugs her— and pulls back, hands still on the shorter girl's shoulders and red nails finding purchase on her skin. "A true cheat, just like your father! Oh, he'll be so proud."

Any composure Lisa had mustered begins to falter.

"W-w-what do you mean?"

Heather pouts theatrically. "Oh honey, did you not know? Your father has been having serial affairs across the world! Why do you think he's gone all the time? He practically humps everything in sight." She looked up, feigning thoughtfulness. "Actually, he even tried to hit on Courtney at the Seven Eleven just last week. She didn't take very kindly to it, of course."

Lisa blanched and began to shake violently, only able to stay upright because Heather was holding her there. "I can't imagine what you're going through, you poor thing. The least favorite daughter. The product of a loveless marriage. I know your older sister went to Harvard, and that's gonna be a tough act to follow," Heather's smile grows wider by the second as she continues, "but on the bright side, with all these wild affairs your father is having, you must have a bastard sibling out there who's even more disappointing than you!"

Heather lets go and Lisa falls, crumpled and broken and back marred by eight tiny crescents.

"Oh chin up, Lisa," Heather calls out, walking back to a stunned MacNamara and cackling Duke. "You're the homecoming queen!"

The following Monday, Heather quietly hangs both crowns in her locker, nodding and smiling honestly at the fans gathered around her. Lisa does not return to Westerburg.

Heather Chandler is one Mythic Bitch.

And just like that, class is over. The bell rings and students clamor for the door, afternoon jailbreak in full swing. Packing up my stuff will take enough time that I'll miss the brunt of the insanity, and I'm admittedly not in a huge rush anyway.

One of the few perks of living in a small town is that everything is more or less in walking - or riding - distance. The hill the school sits on is what defines our town: you either live up the hill, in the expensive and nice houses, or down the hill, in the small neighborhoods that encircle what some poor souls might call our "downtown" area. It's, like, one street, and most of the places just sell shaved ice. I mean, come on.

The thing about the hill, though, is that it's not really a hill and more of a "hill". Given that we're on Oahu, it's a fucking mountain. The thing is so imposing, so massive, so omnipresent that it serves as a landmark for everything else. Uphill, downhill, or on the beach. Those are the only places you can go, unless you choose to leave town completely. I cannot wait until I can finally choose that fourth option.

I grab my longboard from where it's leaning on the wall and make for the door. Heathers Chandler and Duke are still in the room, with Kurt hanging around them practically salivating. They speak in hushed tones, and when I realize I'm staring, steely blue eyes find mine. I shiver and pick up the pace.

The ride from Westerburg to the surf shop is easy and fun. It's just a straight shot west with a slight decline, making for some decent land cruising. Barely any clouds in the sky, low wind, fantastic waves from what I can see… it's gonna be a great session.

I'm in high spirits when I finally get to the shop: Shark Finn Surf. Betty's always claimed to be embarrassed by the name, but I think she secretly loves it. Cheesy puns are much more appealing as local storefront names than anything else. I push the door open and inhale as much of that sweet board wax scent as I can. A contented sigh escapes my lips before I think to stop it.

"Thinking of hot boys, or hot boards?" Betty inquires with a smirk from behind the counter. I can't help but laugh as I make my way over to her. "C'mon Betts, what do you think?"

Given her light courseload this year, Betty managed to secure early release so she could work more hours at her parents' shop. Even though I personally elected to take more AP classes, I can't help but get a twinge of jealousy every time I remember her imprisonment ends after lunch every day, instead of closer to 3 p.m. like it does for the rest of us mere mortals.

"Well, we do have something new coming down the line," she starts, leading me to the side room where Papa Finn builds boards. "I think you're gonna love it."

She opens the door into the workshop, a small space with enough room for a rack of boards, a desk, a window to the shop, and two sawhorses for supporting the current project. A project which, if I'm not mistaken, looks like-

"Carbon fiber," Betty confirms before I even have a chance to ask. "This is just a shortboard now, of course, but Dad's gonna try and work on a gun next. Should make for a more durable and lighter board, which I'm sure you'll appreciate."

I slowly make my way around the board, trying not to drool. It's black and sleek as sin, about six feet from head to tail, and sporting five acrylic fins on the back that stand at attention as I walk by.

"Fuck, Betty, this thing is gorgeous."

I've been riding boards made by Papa Finn since I can remember. Even back when I was starting out, he worked on a custom foamie that would be short and light enough for my five year old self to handle. The quiver I've got at home is entirely composed of his work. This really looks like something else, though, even compared to my current favorite: a blue fiberglass from last season. Another ex-navy man, Connor Finn moved his family to Oahu during his service days while he was stationed on the island. He fell in love with surfing the moment his feet touched the board, and, after twenty years of service, he retired at the ripe age of 40 to open Shark Finn Surf with his wife, Shelly.

"I thought you might approve," a voice booms from the doorway, and I turn to see Papa Finn, arms crossed and grinning. "I made it with you in mind."


	3. Chapter 3

My mouth practically hits the floor.

"What?! Seriously?!"

He chuckles as he enters the room, massive frame quickly striding over to us. "Yes, seriously. You're the best surfer we know, and could make a fantastic spokesperson for the new line we're revealing this season. Drumroll, please," he asks. Betty and I drum the board as fast as we can. The second we stop: "BlackFinn boards!" We all laugh together and I shake my head in disbelief.

"Shit, wow, thanks guys, I seriously can't believe this," I manage to get out, nerves buzzing with excitement. "But, you know, there's one issue with me being the spokesperson of course, and that's-"

The door to the shop slams open and shouting from outside shatters the mood.

"You fucking fag!" a deep voice threatens. "Don't think you can fucking hide!"

The three of us leap out of the workshop and back into the store, where we're greeted with a greasy, panting boy wearing a trenchcoat. He's doubled over and seems to be having a hard time catching his breath. "Greetings and salutations," he mumbles, looking up as we walk over to him. His eyes are small, beady things, his smile genuine. Broken, but genuine.

When his breathing finally begins to return to normal, he straightens back up and reveals his intimidating height. He stands with a slight hunch, like he carried a great weight on his shoulders for a long time and his body never really got to recover. He's almost annoyingly hot.

"What the hell is going on?" Papa Finn demands, old navy gruff cutting through his normally quiet and caring persona.

"I tried making some new friends, but it looks like we got off on the wrong foot."

"I'll say," Papa Finn grunts. Two shadows begin to cover us and we see none other than Kurt Kelly and Ram Sweeney bounding up to the glass door of the shop.

"That bastard went into- oh fuck, Finn's there. Shit. Act natural." Kurt half-whisper, half-shouts at Ram. "Yeah man, be fucking chill," he responds.

I can't help but groan as they march in, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in matching letterman jackets and shit-eating grins, as always.

"Hey boys, what brings you in today?" Papa Finn inquires, the guy in the trenchcoat slowly slinking further into the store.

"Oh, you know man, just looking to pick up some fresh wax for the boards. Same as always."

Papa Finn nods along. "Mhmm. You've already gone through all the wax you bought yesterday? That's usually enough to get you two through a few weeks." Kurt and Ram nod tentatively, Ram offering, "Well, you know, we just like to always be prepared. It's a good organization… thing." Kurt grunts in agreement.

"Boys," Papa Finn starts, hands on his hips as he moves to stand over them. "I'm pretty sure you're actually here to beat the shit out of our new friend here," He glances back, "What's your name again?"

"Hadn't mentioned it yet, we were preoccupied," the trenchcoat guy offers. "Name's Jason Dean. I go by JD."

Papa Finn nods. "Nice to meet you JD."

"Likewise."

He turns back to Kurt and Ram.

"Right. So I'd really prefer if the two of you didn't threaten JD on my property. Or anywhere else, really," he sighs. "But I know I can't really control that. So, I'd rather you settle this shit here and now."

Kurt and Ram don wicked grins and crack their knuckles in unison.

"That's not quite what I had in mind, boys," Papa Finn adds, his voice picking up a steely tone. "JD!" he calls out, JD spinning away from where he was examining merchandise on the counter. "Yes sir?"

"You don't happen to surf, do you?"

"I do," he says, smiling cooly. "Lived in a different beach town before I got here. I like to think I'm not half bad." His eyes meet mine and I feel a flush roll onto my cheeks.

"There we go," Papa Finn adds, smiling. "Surf-off it is."

Kurt and Ram fist bump, unfazed by the turn of events. Betty lets out a small gasp.

"We've fucking got this, bro," Kurt slaps Ram on the back and wraps his arm around him to give him a fake noogie.

"The teams are unbalanced," I blurt out, earning looks from all directions. I gesture between the boys sheepishly. "It's two versus one."

JD winks at me - he winks - and adds, "I could take them, no problem," with a nonchalant shrug. My heart flutters a bit and turn my head to the ground, crossing my arms for stability, both mentally and physically. Betty sees this and suppresses a giggle. I make a mental note to get after her about it later. We're already uncool enough... I don't really need any help from embarrassing friends.

"The teams are fine," Papa Finn looks me in the eye and a glimmer of youthful scheming flashes across his face. "You're riding with JD."

Varying shades of surprise cross everyone in the room, especially Kurt and Ram. Betty practically oozes smug.

I feel incredibly faint.

"But, Papa Finn, I've never-"

"Now's a great time to start surfing in public, Veronica. You've been good enough to for years. You're just modest."

"Veronica, you surf!?" exclaims Kurt, or Ram, or both. "Dude, what the fuck!"

I can't even begin to try to answer them. Sure, I've been surfing for well over ten years now, but never in public. Never on the popular beaches. As a coastal town, the beach is the place for anyone and everyone to hang out. Chances are good that on any given day, somewhere between fifty and ninety percent of Westerburg's student body will be out in the surf, sand, and sun. Even the Heathers aren't above spending most of their time there.

All those eyes on you doesn't make for a great place to practice new tricks. Betty and I hang out almost exclusively at another beach, about thirty minutes by car to the east. It's a small cove, guarded on both sides by steep crags that make it hard to find. In all our years of going, we've only ever run into other people once, maybe twice. It's our best-kept secret, and it let me learn to ride barrels and pop aerials in peace. No judgement, no surfers, and absolutely no Heathers.

I feel a cold hand on my wrist and meet its owner's eyes. "Hey, V, I don't know you very well yet, but I'm sure you're fantastic. Let's kick these guys' asses, yeah?" JD's face is so hopeful, so bright and excited as he looks down at me, I can't help say anything but, "fuck yeah."

Betty squeals with delight and sprints off to the workshop.

"Guess I better go get ready, huh?" JD asks, releasing my wrist and stepping back. I already miss the contact, feeling the ghost of touch where it been seconds before. Christ Veronica, get it together.

"Go grab some trunks from the racks if you need them, JD, then we can take a look at what board you wanna use," Papa Finn offers graciously.

"Got my own trunks, but I will need a board. I take my leave to the changing rooms, then" JD responds, bowing and sliding further back into the shop.

"We'll meet you losers down there, then," Ram grunts, Kurt already half out the door.

"Well don't wait up," I mumble half-heartedly, drawing a giggle from Betty as she bounds up to me. With the new board.

"Ready to break in the BlackFinn?"

Even with all the imminent chaos of a surf competition in front of the whole school, I can't help but look forward to hitting the waves with such a nice ride.

"You fucking bet."


	4. Chapter 4

JD must wear his trenchcoat in some sort of contrived act of vengeance against society so they can't see his actual body. Stripped down to just his trunks, he's distractingly attractive. Sure, I've always had a thing for skinnier guys, but when he turns to me in the back of Papa Finn's Jeep and quotes Nietzsche, he cements his status as a serious heartthrob. 

"You're sure we can do this? Kurt and Ram are assholes, sure, but they surf pretty often…" I muse.

"Assholes need to be knocked down a peg. They won't soon forget being made to look like idiots," JD replies. "Well, bigger idiots than they already are. Plus I'm new here, and the extreme always seems to make an impression."

He stares straight ahead, right through the windshield, and adds, "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." The wink he throws in my direction confirms that, right there, had been for me.

This fucking guy.

We get to the beach soon after, and I'm a nervous wreck. Even just pulling into the parking lot, I can see tons of familiar cars from Westerburg High. Heather Duke's green Wrangler sits proudly in the first spot, one she probably called dibs on ages ago and has never let anyone take since. I shudder, remembering the fucking Heathers would be in attendance.

"You alright there V?" JD asks, grabbing our boards from the back while Betty gets our towels and umbrella together.

"Totally," I lie, yanking the BlackFinn from out of his hands. He jumps at the sudden intensity and I shrug. "Sorry," I grumble. "I carry my own boards." Having the board in my hands, the familiar weight of it as we move towards the roar of the ocean, has an immediate soothing effect on me.

JD raises his hands in surrender, smiling. "Hey now, if a lady needs to carry her board, who am I to stop her? You're the boss here anyway."

I roll my eyes at him, though I'm smiling now too. "I guess. Let's get moving."

Betty scouts out a spot for us not long after we make it onto the beach itself. As suspected, it's packed with Westerburg students. Funny; familiar faces all around and not one I find comforting. The bay is lots bigger than the cove Betty and I frequent, and thus much more open. Rocky outcroppings provide natural borders on both the east and west, and the sand is so soft and white that it hurts to look at, but feels fantastic.

We've entered on the far east side, closer to cliffs there. I've never really been down here before, so I've never known, but the cliffs on this side actually have stairs on them, carving a twisted path up to the top, where a few people are standing and looking out at the surf.

"God, that's gotta be like, what, ten stories up!" I exclaim. "That must be one hell of a hike."

"Or they just drove up from the road near the parking lot," Betty observes. I shrug. "Or that."

It's not surprising I missed the road, I'd been admittedly a bit distracted while we were pulling up.

Speaking of distractions, camped out in the shadow of the cliff are the Heathers, in all their glory. Red, yellow, and green striped umbrellas covering three matching beach chairs sway in the gentle breeze. Heather Duke is, as always, in the middle of reading something, her eyes obscured by large sunglasses. Heather MacNamara is laughing and smiling, legs crossed underneath her as she watches some members of the football team try to bury one of the freshmen in sand. It's hard to remember she's a Heather when she's like this, all sunshine and unabashed joy. She's been on the cheer team since 6th grade though, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. This side of her contrasts sharply with her biting tongue and near-famous dark humor, some of which may be more accidental than calculated.

"Heather's skin is so soft," she'd told me once while we were both washing our hands in the bathroom at the same time, "you could rip it off her and swaddle yourself in it and never want to wear anything else ever again." Despite having the same sense of humor and comedic timing as a serial killer, she's the most friendly of the Heathers, and her bouncy, golden curls are enough to make Farrah Fawcett jealous.

Heather Chandler is… not doing much of anything, it seems. Maybe sleeping? She's lying perfectly still in her reclined beach chair, emotionless eyes hidden behind black aviators. Her maroon bikini isn't nearly as revealing as MacNamra's - I'm worried a stray gust of wind may be enough to show more MacNamara than intended -, but it fits her perfectly and is decorated with stunning, intricate gold buckles to match her hair. I've never noticed her muscle tone before, hidden as it was under her clothes, but it's almost all I can see now; the hints of abs, defined arms, a collarbone that begs to-

"Earth to Veronica, you there?" Betty queries, nudging me in the side.

"Yeah, yep, totally here!" I respond immediately, forcing myself to look away from The Unholy Trinity of Westerburg. "Just thinking about how I wanna play the competition."

Betty glances from me to the Heathers and back again. "... Right. Well, I'm gonna set up our stuff here, why don't you and JD go find Kurt and Ram?"

I nod, wedging my board in the sand and scouring the beach for boneheads. They're over by MacNamara of course, longboards abandoned while they dance like monkeys for her amusement. They look so much like every other bro on the football team that I'm not surprised I didn't see them earlier.

JD slides up to my side, his hand a makeshift visor over his eyes while he squints in their direction. "Well that was easy. Should have assumed that where there are Heathers, there's lackeys. You know, I've been to a good number of high schools at this point, and I'm getting really sick of this popular-clique-schtick. It is, however, kinda refreshing all the head bitches here have the same name. Makes it easier, yeah?"

I chuckle nervously as it dawns on me that we'll have to go get Kurt and Ram ourselves, since god knows they'll never remember to come find us on their own. Which is fine, of course, but it means we'll have to head behind enemy lines— straight into Heather territory.

JD must pick up on my concern, as he offers, "It's just three girls with inflated egos and a team of meatheads. Walking stereotypes. Nothing we can't handle." He does that damn winking thing again and I find myself walking right next to him and straight into Hell.

"Yo! Guys!" I shout ahead, stopping the roughhousing-football-show-off-whatever the football team was trying to conduct. They turn to us with looks of confusion, eyes mostly fixed on JD, when Kurt and Ram finally step forward.

"Damn, 'Ronica! We didn't think you'd show!" Ram laughs obnoxiously.

"Can't miss an opportunity to put two future gas station attendants in the ground," I respond, confidence ignited by JD's presence.

A chorus of "Ooooh, burn!" erupts among the other players and I smirk at Kurt's incredulous look. Heather MacNamara is even laughing.

"You wanna play like that? Alright nerd, let's do this," Ram responds, walking up even closer to us now.

JD regards him with a look of fond amusement, eyes like slits as he makes no attempt to hide his smile. "Think you forgot something there, Ram-o," he observes. "We don't have a judge."

"Yes you do!" Leaping to her feet and bounding over to us like a puppy for playtime, Heather MacNamara is positively beaming.

"Well, you certainly look like a surf expert," JD smiles at her. I stifle a laugh, but MacNamara clearly didn't get the joke.

"I know, it's gotta be the hair or something," she muses, twirling golden locks around her finger. "But I actually don't know the first thing about it! Kurt and Ram told me all about your competition though. They said they needed a judge, and at first I thought Heather should do it, since she's probably read a book or magazine or something to know what she's doing, but then Heather had the idea that I should be the one to do it, because I know the least about surfing!"

My brows knit in confusion and MacNamara giggles at me. "That means I don't know how to fake the scores! It comes down to whatever trick I think is most impressive," she concludes, nodding solemnly. "I can be a very fair judge."

While part of me is suspicious she could still be biased towards the guys, the line of thought does make sense. From what I can tell, Heather MacNamara also makes for an awful liar. "Heather and Heather and I are, like, super excited! It'll be very."

JD looks at me, waiting for a response, and I offer a shrug. "Alright, yeah, that works for me."

Heather cheers, jumping and punching the sky like the cliche of a cliche. "Yes! Awesome. I'll be in the lifeguard chair down by the waves. Wanna meet there in 15?"

"That works for us."

"Yay! I'll have Kurt and Ram start getting ready too then. See you soon!" Heather jogs back to her spot in the shade, Kurt and Ram following her without being asked to. Duke has closed her book and is now regarding MacNamara and the football guys with a look of amusement. Chandler hasn't moved an inch.

"Well," I start walking back to Betty and our stuff. "Here goes nothing."


	5. Chapter 5

The BlackFinn takes wax like nothing I've ever seen. Brand new and slick, I expect it to take layers and layers of the stuff before I get any traction, but it really only takes one after the basecoat. I'm running on autopilot, lost in the ritual and "Wax on, wax off"-ing in a way that would make Mr. Myagi proud. I flip the board on its side, sure to get the ralls. A samurai sharpening her blade for battle. I run my hands along the board one more time, marvelling in how it feels like an old friend I just hadn't met until now. Alright, sure, I sound crazy here. Sue me. But there's gotta be a psychological component to that, though, right? I've been riding boards made from the same guy my entire life, I'm probably just picking up on subtle characteristics all his models share. Well, crazy or not, I love it. I'm so ready to get out in the water that I bolt for the beach the second I see Heather MacNamara heading towards the lifeguard chair.

"Hey, V, wait up!" JD calls after me, but I barely hear him. He'll get the message and get down here on his own.

Sure enough, he and Betty arrive at my side just as Heather begins going through the rules.

"So I don't know anything about how these competitions actually work," she begins, earning a quiet groan from Betty, "but! I've made up some rules that I think sound pretty good."

"No worries, Heather, we totally got you," Ram grunts, throwing a cheesy thumbs up her way. I catch the look of disdain that flashes across JD's face out of the corner of my eye. Can't blame him, this show is hard to watch.

"Oh, thanks Ram!" Heather replies, sincere as always. "Now, here's the deal: you all have, like, one hour to ride four waves each. No more, no less! The most impressive ride of the hour determines the winner!"

"Hey, that's… actually surprisingly close to actual surf competition rules," I marvel. "Not bad, Heather."

Heather shrugs. "It's what makes sense, really. I've participated in and judged, like, a ton of cheer competitions, so it wasn't too hard to go from there."

That's not anything I'd actually considered before, but she's totally right. Heather MacNamara is one hell of an athlete, having lead Westerberg's cheer team to multiple victories on a national stage. I chalk up a point in her favor and deduct one from myself: penalty for underestimating people. In fairness, it's a habit and usually justified around here.

I turn to the ocean and see a beautiful swell. No crazy double overhead today, but consistently fun rides should be in our future. That'll work in my favor, too, since I'm the only one here with a shortboard. Kurt and Ram must have decided to put away their foamies for the day. I start walking to the ocean as if drawn to it, subconsciously inching forward, when a shrill voice yanks me back to the shore.

"Oh! I forgot something." Heather puts her hands on her hips and smiles. "Foul play is definitely encouraged." Kurt and Ram grin cracks in their faces, crooked and wild. JD scares me more though, he looks practically manic and definitely out of control. He turns to me, eyes bright, and I swallow, breaking eye contact to ask, "Umm, Heather, why is that allowed to be a thing?"

Heather's smile doesn't falter a bit as she responds, "It'll make things, like, so much more interesting! Get some blood in the water so the sharks can come and play." I open my mouth to retort, or ask if that was a joke, or voice some sort of protest when she adds, "Also Heather asked me to do it."

Of course. I narrow my eyes and look to the eastern cliff and _yep_, Heather Chandler is finally up and staring our group down like a hawk. Why I thought anything the Heathers were involved in might ever be even close to fair is probably an early sign of insanity. She looks like she could be _grinning_ up there, knowing _exactly_ what Heather just told us and how I took it. I bristle. The Heathers can have Westerburg, but the ocean, _surfing_, is mine. I'll win this damn thing no matter what bullshit they try to hit me with.

"Then let's start the show," JD mutters, head low and eyes set on Kurt and Ram.

Heather climbs the lifeguard chair and stands up, whistle ready. "Are you ready surfers!? On your marks, get set…"

Kurt, Ram, and JD all take off early.

Oh god dammit.

"GO!"

The whistle blows and I'm the only one who hasn't moved yet. I don't sprint like the boys did, opting instead to try and get a feel for where I should paddle out. I know before we even hit the water that I'll have to stay as far away from the action as possible. They'll be faster and more stable on their bigger boards, so they'll win any time I contest for a wave against them. I doubt they'd ever try and hit me directly: punching girls publicly isn't their style. Drop-ins and poaching waves though? Absolutely fair game.

Kurt and Ram make it to the water before JD does, though he's not far behind. I elect to run west, up-current from where the boys are to give myself my own plot of waves. JD sees me and smiles honestly, if only for a moment, in silent acknowledgement of the plan. _I'll stay up here, keep Kurt and Ram off my back._ I try to grin back but he's glaring down the competition again and already angling for a way to try and hit them.

The set of waves that roll by break too early for me so I duck dive under them, disappointed but also not willing to waste my time. They hit the boys perfectly though, and Kurt hops right up on the first of the set, slashing forwards towards JD. He sails right over him, barely missing, before he bails into the residual foam. JD seems unfazed, already scanning the horizon for a shot at vengeance.

Another two sets of waves come and go and I'm starting to get anxious. Nothing's broken quite right for me yet, always just too early or late, even though I'm positive this is the sweet spot. The boys have had a few waves, but their rides have been woefully unproductive. JD fell off his first one without Kurt and Ram's help, which lead to guffawing I could hear all the way over here. They seem to have forgotten about me and, to be fair, I'm not posing much of a threat.

"Thirty more minutes!" Heather calls from her chair and my heart starts into overdrive. It's one thing to lose a surf competition because someone pulled better tricks, it's another thing entirely to _just not ride any waves_. I grit my teeth and paddle back a bit, resolving to take the next wave I can, regardless of how good it is. The first wave of the next set is too choppy to ride, but the second looks vaguely promising. I swim for it and find myself up and riding immediately. Alright, so it's not a perfect wave, but _damn_ does this board feel right. I swing eastward, carving the wave with the current and snapping off the lip as I go. I'm charging so fast I barely see Ram's outstretched arm as I finally hit their section of water. My ankle strap snags and I get yanked off my board-_hard_\- and hit the face of the wave. I'm dizzy while I'm underwater, unsure which way is up because my board is being thrown around with me, the two of us ragdolling underwater together. Finally, after my lungs start to burn, I feel it start to pull to the side, which I can only assume is up, and follow the line. My first breath after emerging is desperate, gasping and heavy as I hang on the side of the board.

"Veronica! Holy shit! Are you alright?!" JD shouts, completely unable to mask the concern in his voice.

"Totally fine. I've had worse," I grumble, eyes still shut.

"You tombstoned there, V, I was worried." Ah, yes, the classic surfer wipeout: being swept underwater so fast your board yanks up vertically on the surface, perpendicular to the water and marking a makeshift grave for your ride. Poetic.

"It's fine," I reassure him as I survey this new spot of ocean. Kurt and Ram are only thirty feet away, tops, so all my waves just got thirty times less rideable. A new set is coming our way and I dodge right out of it, still winded from my most recent effort. Kurt's the only one who takes it, managing a crude approximation of noseriding for about three seconds before falling off. I hear Heather cheer from the shoreline and want to scream. A three second noseride is the most impressive trick here? Seriously?

With Kurt back towards the shore and Ram the only remaining obstacle, I elect to try for the second wave of the set, given the one Kurt grabbed wasn't half bad. I'm paddling to hop on when I look to my left and see JD and Ram doing the same. I stop immediately, knowing a three man wave won't get anyone anywhere. Both of the guys grab the wave flawlessly, but JD has the current working in his favor as he races for Ram. I think for a second that they'll ride at each other in some modern revival of jousting, boards aimed squarely at each other's' throats. Ram falls while trying to pivot, though, and JD shows no sign of slowing down. I almost shout _JD no!_, but before I can even try to get my brain to start processing speech, the tailfins of JD's board connect hard with the side of Ram's skull. The football player goes under and JD smiles his blinding smile, turning to me and shouting "Now, Veronica!" before bailing off of the wave.

I'm in the middle of paddling for Ram when I see the third and final wave of the set fast approaching. It's gorgeous, ready to break and barrel only a few feet from where I am. _Fuck it._ I switch targets and line myself up for the ride. Water crashes around me and I'm up, I'm flying, I'm floating on the side of a wave. I'm on the largest face I've seen all day, plenty of room to carve up and down. I swing low and pivot straight up, my body screaming for the feeling I know is about to hit. I'm airborne now, grabbing for a 360 without even having to think about it. The wave spins below me as I crash back down, back on the face and ready to swing again. There's cheering coming from somewhere-Heather, Betty, I don't know- but the blood in my ears and beat of my heart to the ocean waves drown it out as I crest up into another aerial. Another 360, this one with a Mute grab, and my eyes are closed when I'm back on the wave face. I ride it for another second and then bail gracefully, hopping off backwards to the sound of screaming and wild applause.

I surface beaming. I look for JD but he's already heading back to shore, the match clearly over. I'm starting towards him when the awful crack of JD's tailfins hitting Ram's skull plays again in my mind. _Shit, where's Ram?!_ Kurt's board lies discarded on the shore, but I can't see its owner anywhere. Turing back out to the open water I see Kurt hauling Ram's body onto his board, leg limp but still attached to the tether. I can't see the features of his face at this distance, but Kurt's concern shows in every one of his panicked movements.

"Is Ram alright?" I shout, competition completely forgotten. "I can come back and help if you need it!"

"Fuck you, you skank! I don't need your help!" comes Kurt's reply. He's straining to keep Ram's body on the board as waves relentlessly batter the two of them.

Ram's arm finally moves and he shifts onto his side, clearly in pain but alive, at least. I can't help them now and don't know if I want to anyway. Quitting time it is.

Heather's descended from the lifeguard chair now and surrounded by twenty or so onlookers from school. She's still cheering as I near the beach, arms waving wildly in celebration.

"That was incredible, Veronica! Absolutely incredible! I had, like, no idea you could surf, and you show up with this?!" she gushes, making a point to direct her attention to me alone and not JD.

I laugh and shake my head to get some of my hair out of my eyes as I wade towards her from the shallows.

"It really just takes one good wave," I admit. A force slams into me and it's Betty, shaking with excited energy. "I can't believe that! I mean, I can, I've been watching you surf for years now, but wow!" She pulls back and I'm floored by the pride in her eyes. "And two aerials in one go, too? I know you've done it before, but seeing it in competition… it's just something else entirely." I don't know what to say in response to that, so I just hug her back and whisper "thank you". She usually has a way of knowing what I mean anyway.

The second Betty pulls away, I'm hit full force with a MacNamara hug, something I had observed from a distance before but never felt. It's so affectionate it _hurts_\- appropriate, for Heather. "Ugh, I'm so happy!" she squeals before pulling away. Heather turns to the gathered crowd and, in her best cheerleading captain voice, announces, "Veronica is our winner!" I blush, but when I see JD out of the corner of my eye, smiling and skulking at the same time, I remember:

"Hey Heather, didn't JD win too, since we were on a team?"

Heather turns back around and shrugs. "I dunno. He did take Ram out pretty good, and that was funny. Not much blood though." I grimace. "But, you're the only one that impressed Heather. And that's a huge deal!"

"What do you mean, I 'impressed Heather'? Wasn't that the point? I mean, you're the judge…"

MacNamara rolls her eyes. "Not me, idiot! _Heather_ Heather!"

Elation and fear fight for my mind while I slowly look towards the eastern cliffs once more. Heather Duke is halfway down the beach on her way to us, attention locked on Kurt and Ram as they crawl for the shore. Behind her stands Heather Chandler, brought to her feet and aviators tucked in the straps of her bikini. We're standing pretty far away from one another but it doesn't matter, she's got this thousand yard stare that you _feel_ more than you see. Her face is obscured partially by the shadows of the umbrellas, but I can tell there's a hint of a smile teasing at the corners of her lips. She takes her bottom lip between her teeth and nods once, a sign that could just mean, "I acknowledge you are a person," but coming from Heather, it's one of the highest compliments I've ever received. I move for a half-wave back but catch myself before I can execute it. God, Veronica, waving bashfully to _Heather_ fuckin' _Chandler_ is just about the most awkward thing you can do. I perform a mock salute instead, sassy enough to be in character but pathetic enough that she won't see it as a slight against her. It's also difficult for me to imagine that Heather Chandler could possibly _not_ like people saluting her. She turns away to start packing up her things without any reciprocation, but I want to believe she saw me, that my salute was observed and considered and maybe managed to convey, "Hey, yes, I acknowledge you are a person too! Neat."

Grin still on my face, I remember all eyes are on me. "... oh, right," I mumble, and MacNamara rolls her eyes.

"Well this calls for a celebration," JD slings his arms over Betty and I's shoulders. "I could really go for a slushie. Seven-11?"

I giggle as he leads us towards the lot. Heather, busy chatting and laughing with the spectators, turns to us and shouts over her shoulder before we leave, "Hey, Veronica, pick up some BQ corn nuts for school tomorrow, would ya?"

Corn nuts aren't my thing, but who cares? Heather MacNamara knows my name. If they're her thing, they could become my thing too. "Sure, yeah!"

"You're, like, so bitchin' girl!"

I get a few high-fives and thumbs-ups as we go, positive that this many people have never looked at me all at once for any reason worth being proud of. We get to the lot and Betty asks timidly, "I guess we're on the map now, huh?"

JD answers for me. "I guess we are."


	6. Chapter 6

I've only been in our local Seven Eleven a handful of times. We got it recently, maybe last year, and for the few weeks immediately following its grand opening, it was the place to be. It could take a chain conglomerate years to get out to the islands, if they ever did, and with good reason: business here certainly isn't booming.

"Look at this! All to ourselves!" JD exclaims, arms wide in praise as swings open the double doors. "Just after dinnertime on a weeknight and not one person here."

He turns to me with a mock pout. "How tragic."

I roll my eyes and make for the chips and dip near the back. I'd completely forgotten that I hadn't eaten anything until Betty mentioned her dad wanting her back by seven for pasta. Since then, it'd been nearly impossible to ignore the rumbling of my stomach. "Sounds like a tiger growling," JD observed in the car after one particularly loud grumble, much to my chagrin.

I'm at the front and ready to check out when JD swoops up beside me, leaning back on the glass covering slowly rotating taquitos. "No slushie? That's criminal!"

"I'm more hungry than thirsty, plus I've got my water bottle in my bag," I assure him, but he simply shakes his head.

"No, I'm sorry Veronica, but that simply won't do. You'll have to go grab one before we can leave,"

I open my mouth in protest but he cuts me off.

"My treat."

The slushie options for our Seven-11 are pretty limited, but I've always enjoyed the blue raspberry flavor. I make for the checkout line a second time, pleased to see JD nodding his approval. We grab our things and move to sit out in the parking lot and watch the waves roll in.

I pull some slushie and grimace in pain when a headache reverberates across my temple.

"Brainfreeze?" JD asks, amused smile on his face.

"Ugh, yeah, I totally forgot about those," I mumble. "I haven't had a slushie in forever."

"Two problems here, V. One: you should have a slushie at least once a week. Once a day, if you're a true connoisseur like me, but once a week is alright for a young acolyte such as yourself. Two: you never, NEVER forget about the brainfreeze. It's the best part."

"Best part?" I can't hide the disgust on my face. "Look, JD, I don't know you very well and normally would love to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you're out of your mind."

A playful glint in his eyes catches me off-guard. "Alright, yeah, I might be." He leans back on his hands, slushie seated patiently on the asphalt between us. "But here's the thing: it can make you feel so, _alive_, yeah? It's such a specific feeling, so unique to slushies, there's no way you could be anywhere else when you feel that… just here…"

He trails off, eyes shut and smiling peacefully.

"Poetic," I snort. "That all you got?"

He hums quietly before responding. "Hmmm, yeah, I guess. There shouldn't really need to be any more to it, should there?" He opens one eye to meet my gaze. "If you want the real answer, though, we can talk more some other day. Maybe over dinner?"

My heartbeat picks up and I almost break a chip in half with my nerves.

"Oh, umm, yeah! That would be awesome. Fantastic, actually."

"Great. I'm looking forward to it." He's staring back at the waves now, rays of choked sun still fighting against the weight of the night.

"You know, Veronica," he muses, slushie brought back to his lips. "I spent the whole day at Westerburg thinking about how awful everyone here would be, but you've really proven me wrong. I'm not wrong very often, you know."

I shrug. "It's what I do. Plus there's always some good people around. Law of large numbers and all that."

JD snickers bitterly. "Yeah, I don't know about that one. I've been through a lot of high schools, more than enough for your Law of Large Numbers, and I have yet to see anyone who even tries to give a shit about other people. Honestly, you're kinda unique like that, helping out a new kid on his first day at a new school without any prompting." A genuine smile, the one I like best. "I dig it."

I'm worried I might pass out from how overwhelming this whole experience has been, but just as I start to feel light-headed, JD hops to his feet.

"I gotta get home, deal with my Dad and all that." He sticks his hand out to me and I take it, hoping he can't feel how badly I'm shaking. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow at school?"

I nod timidly.

"Oh, _shit_, wait," I gather my stuff and kick my longboard up from where I'd been sitting on it. "I forgot the BQ corn nuts."

JD laughs and puts his hands on his hips.

"Wow, seriously Veronica? Gonna just cave to demands from the clone club?"

"The Heathers, and yeah. Though I wouldn't consider it 'caving' so much as just taking advantage of being in good relations with a potentially dangerous higher power."

He clicks his tongue. "So, yes, caving."

I start back for the storefront, the sudden change of mood in the air throwing me off-guard. I want to get out of here. "I'm a sinner in the hands of an angry god. I'll see you tomorrow? For lunch?"

"Sounds like a plan, captain," JD tosses his bag over his shoulder, staring down the road back towards Main Street. I grab the corn nuts, sure to pick BQ, and sigh contentedly as my gaze wanders over to the slushie machines near the front. JD is a heartthrob riddle wrapped up in good-looks and a trench coat.


	7. Chapter 7

Being a night owl should be considered a handicap worthy of compensation in the American high school system. I'd happily buy lunch for anyone who could explain to me why it was decided that teenagers - who have been scientifically proven to need two more hours of sleep than adults on average - need to begin their days before the sun rises. Yesterday's excitement had left me absolutely wired, buzzing with energy that lasted well into the next morning. Alright, so my late night phone call with Betty and two-hour diary session probably didn't help, but they were necessary. It had been a regular day and then _boom_, out of nowhere comes this dashing and intelligent dark horse who rides into battle with me and helps vanquish the tyranny of asshole-ery on the high seas.

That makes it sound more dramatic than it was, but, eh. It was a hell of a lot more dramatic than my usual Tuesday.

When I start waking up to the sound of my mother's frantic pacing, I feel a sense of panic wash over me. I check the clock and, _yep_, it's already eight. I'll be half an hour late to Linear Algebra, my special topics math course, if I'm lucky. Throwing on whatever I can find and grabbing my bag and longboard, I kiss my Mom goodbye, assuring her I won't end up a truant from oversleeping once during senior year. I'm sure Harvard, Duke, and Brown will find it in their hearts to forgive me. Especially given I'll have a perfectly legitimate excuse in the form of a doctor's note.

I realized pretty early on I could forge doctor's notes for migraines if I ever needed an excuse for a tardy, early release, or absence. They're the perfect illness- nothing visible or too terribly serious about them- and since I've been using the excuse long enough, it has been accepted as a Real and Actual Condition that I suffer from by the nurse. Fake it 'till ya make it.

The ride to school is a lot less fun than the ride away from it for a number of reasons. First, yeah, the thought of starting an entire new day there all over again is exhausting, but second for the much more physical reason of the school being on a hill. I've done the ride once a day for two years now, but my leg still sometimes gets painfully cramped by the time I get to the top and see Westerburg's glorious double doors waiting for me. Luckily, today is not one of those days. The nurse takes my note and marks my tardy status as excused without even getting off the phone with Wanda, her friend who apparently absolutely _has_ to hear what Paul did last night because she would _never_ believe the nerve of that man. It's ten minutes to the bell for second period, so I sit down next to the vending machines near the cafeteria and pull out _Frankenstein_, our required reading for English. Given it's my next class, it's one of my better options for killing time. It's hard to focus on the story, though, given my head is swimming with thoughts of JD, crashing walls of water, and blue eyes obscured by shadows.

The bell signaling the end of first period rings before I've even finished a chapter. Students flood into the hallway and I hastily grab up my things before someone has a chance to step on me. I take my time getting through the mob, as I don't need to stop at my locker to get anything, and look around for Betty or, even better, JD.

_Fuck_. I should have asked JD for his class schedule. I sigh as I walk into class, resigned to just try and find him with Betty during lunch. I beat even Ms. Lester to class, so I have my choice of seating. I go with my ideal spot: one row from the back next to the windows. Eighth Grade Veronica would be absolutely disgusted–the back of the class is for bad kids!–but Exhausted Senior Veronica couldn't give less of a shit. I fell asleep in English last year a few times and still managed to snag perfect scores on essays, so I'm sure I'll be fine. All those years of reading books late at night and keeping a diary finally paid off.

Students start to trickle in and I scowl a bit more every time one of them isn't wearing a trenchcoat. By the time Heather MacNamara bounces into the room, I've given up hope and probably look the part.

I'm so lost in my cursing the universe for not putting the cute new guy into my English class, I don't notice the cheer captain-sized shadow being cast across my desk.

"Hey Veronica! How's it going?" MacNamara chirps, startling me out of my reverie.

"Oh, shit! Hey Heather, didn't see you there," I mumble out, readjusting my shirt and involuntarily fidgeting in my seat. Why the hell is one of the Heathers asking me about my day? " S'going well, got here late though."

Heather chuckles, sliding into the open seat next to mine. "That's bitchin'! Any day with a late start is a good one in my book." She pulls out a matching gold notebook and pencil case and crosses her legs, facing me and smiling and _what the actual fuck is going on–_

"Ugh, god, I forgot this was happening today." Heather Duke groans as she throws her black purse onto the desk behind MacNamara's. "Morning, sunshine," she grumbles at Heather. "Morning, freak." She nods her head in my direction briefly.

"Heya Heather! Love the blouse today," MacNamara beams, smiling as she turns in Duke's direction. Duke grants her a half smile. "Thanks."

They start talking about something else–clothes, boys, who the fuck knows. I can't think straight enough to listen properly, let alone engage them or, most importantly, ask them _why the fuck they're acting like my long time friends when we've had class together for twelve years without speaking and have a neutral-verging-on-hesitantly-negative relationship._ My stomach contorts in all sorts of painful ways and I stare at my desk, blinking hard twice to clear my vision or maybe force myself to wake up because this _absolutely has got_ to be a dream.

I'm still working on rationalizing how surreal this all is when Heather MacNamara's voice shatters my trance again.

"Oh hey! Veronica! Did you bring the BQ corn nuts I asked you to pick up?"

It takes me a second to realize what she's asking for, but I dive for my backpack when I finally figure it out. "Oh, yeah! Of course!" I find the plastic bag and hold it out for her, still halfway bent over in my chair. "Here you go."

Both the Heathers snicker and I feel my heart fall. Was this some sort of joke? What were they playing at?

"No, no Veronica! They aren't for me," MacNamara giggles out.

My brow furrows and my nerves die away, confusion and early-onset embarrassment rolling out instead.

"Then why did you ask me to get them for you?" I ask with a confidence in my voice I didn't think I could muster. "For that matter, why are you two talking to me anyway?"

Duke shrugs and leans back in her seat, pulling open a thick paperback novel and crossing her legs. "I don't know, genius," she sighs. "Why don't you ask Heather?"

I frown at MacNamara, who has the expression of a child giddy with the joy of knowing a secret.

"Don't look at me!" she throws her hands up in mock surrender. "Heather's right, that's a question for Heather!"

I'm about to let them know exactly how stupid it is that they all have the same name yet _refuse_ to go by last names or nicknames or _something_ when I catch a flash of red out of my peripheral vision. I'm sure my mouth is still open, ready for a retort, when Heather Chandler slides into the desk behind mine.

"Oh my God, Veronica, I know I'm hot, but you don't have to gape like a fish. It's not a good look on you," she drawls, words dripping from her lips like honey. A wave of perfume hits me and it's familiar and foreign all at once. The Heathers all have signature scents–sit near the same people for long enough and you start to pick up on that kind of stuff–but Heather Chandler's is by far the most distinct. It's a heavily floral scent, like a garden I would have visited with my mother years ago, but there's nothing innocent about it. It's the smell of roses, maybe, spread out on a bed with silken sheets. Or a greenhouse, privately owned and obsessively kept, with flora and fauna the likes of which have never been seen outside its walls.

"Sorry," I stutter out, still a bit in shock. "I'm just not really sure what's going on."

The Heathers laugh quietly again and Chandler slides forward onto her desk, face terrifyingly close to mine. My heart practically stops as her eyes–_grey_ eyes, not blue–study me closely. A smirk slips onto her lips and she cocks her head to the side. "Why, Veronica," she begins. "After we saw you surfing yesterday, it became clear that you deserve to be a Heather."

She's still in my personal space when she grabs the bag of corn nuts out of my hand, the sudden crinkling of the plastic enough to make me jump in my seat. Another round of quiet chuckling begins as she leans back in her chair and opens the bag, eyes still locked on mine. "And thank you for the corn nuts, by the way. BQ too, my favorite. Not a bad first impression."

I glance at MacNamara who shoots me two thumbs up and mouths "I told you so!" around her grin.

"So, you just, like..." I close my eyes and take a moment before facing the Heathers again. When I open them back up, the Heathers are still there, looking as beautiful and terrifying as ever. Yup, not a dream. "You just decided to be my friends? Just on whim, because of yesterday?"

MacNamara nods pleasantly and Duke groans. "Hardly. It's more along the lines of adopting a stray out of pity than actually wanting to–"

"Shut up, Heather." Chandler demands, voice level and quick. Duke doesn't even flinch and the whole thing feels disturbingly procedural. "Yes, that was the line of thought."

"Plus you're, like, totally cool! Everyone at Westerburg thinks you're a total badass now!" MacNamara exclaims earnestly. I sheepishly grin at that, her compliment all the more endearing because I know she rarely lies. "Under all those dumb sweatshirts and awkward nerdiness, you're not that bad!"

Ah well. One half-compliment from Heather MacNamara is still more than I'd ever expected to receive, so I'll still count that as a win. Plus, it's no secret my wardrobe isn't exactly stylish. I have the body to wear any of the outfits the Heathers don on any given day–thank you, surfing–but I'm still lacking both the money and the know-how to work anything out on my own. The Heathers seem to toe a fine line between criticism and insult, and I'll take the former over the latter any day.

"Yeah, alright, I'm not exactly anyone's style icon. I'll give you that." I concede with a weak smile.

"You're damn right you're not a style icon."

Chandler follows that with a glare in Duke's direction rather than her usual reprimand.

I find an escape from the uneasy conversation when I spot JD sweeping into the class just as Mrs. Lester shuts the door behind him. The lighthearted smirk he sends my way quickly sours to a scowl as his eyes dart between myself and present company. I shrug apologetically and he nods once as he takes his seat. I'll have a much better shot at trying to explain a rather inexplicable situation to him after class when I can finally use my words.

The Heathers don't bother me too much for the rest of class, thank god. They seem too wrapped up in their own silent conversations, notes flying back and forth at a breakneck pace. Duke alone seems to be carrying on conversations with five or six people at once, somehow managing to hold her paperback in one hand while writing, folding, and passing notes with the other. Her ability to ignore Mrs. Lester on two different fronts was, admittedly, very impressive.

Normally, I'd be absorbed in a book as well, but the strangeness of this morning's events leaves me too uneasy to focus on anything one way or another. Plus, I can't help the feeling I'm being watched.

I've spent an embarrassing amount of time throughout my high school career staring at Heather Chandler. And the thing is, I think that's exactly what she's always wanted. For how well-known she is at Westerberg High, Heather Chandler is… detached from the rest of us. She spends most of her classes practically voguing, staring at nothing in particular with her hair just happening to fall and frame her face _just so_. Ready and willing to be admired. She often reminded me of a statue, cold and silent and unmoving and gorgeous all at once. The kind of subject Betty would love to draw, if she hasn't snuck a few sketches already. I often felt like none of us really _knew_ Heather Chandler, we've just experienced her in passing year after year.

So Heather sitting behind me now, aware of my existence, feels like a total paradigm shift. Every time I start to finally get comfortable in my chair, a chill runs up my spine and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and I know, I just _know_, that she's watching me. I want to turn around in my chair and face her, see if she's really starting me down or just zoning out like she usually does, absent-mindedly holding her chin in the palm of her hand as she thinks about nothing in particular, but my body locks up tight and I can't bring myself to do it.

I'm focusing so intensely on _not _thinking about Heather that I accidentally throw my notebook to the ground instead of turning the page. The loud _smack_ it makes on the linoleum floor breaks through my train of thought like a gunshot, though it doesn't seem like anyone else in the room has paid it any mind. Well, that's not entirely true: Heather Duke side-eyes me quaking in my seat and lets out a quiet groan before returning her regularly scheduled reading. I reach down to grab my notebook and find a sharp red heel on the cover instead, and watch helplessly as Heather drags it back towards her seat. She takes her time picking it up and turning through the first few sheets, acrylic nails click-click-clicking as she lets the pages fly by. I've never written anything personal in any of my notebooks for school and only ever doodled on very rare occasions, but something about the intensity with which Heather is eyeing up my notes makes me feel incredibly exposed. She uncaps her pen and scribbles something in the top of the first page before sticking out her arm to hand my notebook back to me.

"Veronica," she whispers. "I think you dropped this."

I hold my breath as I take it back and spin around to face forwards again as fast as I can. "Thanks" I reply, quick and quiet under my breath.

"You're quite welcome."

I flip to the first page slowly, heart racing and trying my best not to seem too eager to read what Heather's written.

_You need a haircut._

Fuck.


	8. Chapter 8

I don't stick around after the bell rings to see if the Heathers have anything else up their silk sleeves. I can hear Heather MacNamara call out "hey, wait!" as I blow past everyone heading into the hallway, but I can't bring myself to care. Sitting with the Heathers, a privilege though it may have been, made for one of the most stressful class periods of my life. I feel exhausted: physically, due to a lack of sleep, and emotionally, due to the sheer pressure of being seen, being noticed, being _watched_. This time yesterday? I'd been a total nobody: not a loser nor a hero, just another teenager trying to make it through high school with good grades and a few friends. And sure, there were times when I wished for the kinds of luxury that come with being teen royalty: adoring fans, people to do your homework for you, attention from cute boys... and girls, I guess? Maybe just Heather Chandler. Wait, fuck-

That's something to deal with later. For now, I need to find JD.

He swings out of the room not too long after I do and finds me in the hallway almost immediately, black eyes locking with mine as he cuts through the crowd low and fast in my direction.

"Glad to see you're still in one piece after the abduction," he grunts, "have they made you change your name to Heather yet?" The disappointment in his voice is heavy and blunt. I've only known him a day and I already feel as if I've betrayed him.

I shake my head and stare at the ground, unable to meet his gaze. "No, still a Veronica."

"Good. I'd hate to see them suck your soul out, y'know, " Clammy, cold fingers curl around my chin and a too-tight grip forces me to face him. "I haven't known you for long, but I'm already worried about what I'd do if I lost you."

The same crazed, manic glint I saw in JD's eyes yesterday while surfing with Kurt and Ram is back and sends a shiver down my spine. He holds me there for another mile-long second and when he finally lets go, I involuntarily recoil. JD seems to notice and a look of brief concern flashes across his face. It's almost like his soul just came back into his body.

"Wow, uh, sorry, V. I know I can come off a bit strong, didn't mean to scare ya there." His whole frame seems to loosen up, shoulders dropping and shifting uneasily on his feet. I'm working through the whiplash of Nice Guy/Mean Guy JD when a stern cough sounds beside me.

"Hello Veronica, Manson acolyte. Am I interrupting something?" Heather Chandler's low voice startles us both as she slides up next to us, MacNamara and Duke in tow.

"Hate to admit it, but I think you are," JD mutters, unfurling his slouch to stand taller over Chandler, who shows no signs of being intimidated.

"Good, I was hoping to," a chuckle sounds from MacNamara and Duke and JD rolls his eyes. "Veronica," she starts, placing herself almost directly between myself and JD, "I wanted to let you know you'll be the topic of today's lunchtime poll. I figure it's only fitting after yesterday's showing. Your surfing has been all anyone can talk about."

I feel a flush rise to my cheeks. "Dang, yeah, that's… wow."

"I was there too, you know," JD sniffed, jaw setting as he glared daggers at the back of Chandler's head.

"Oh, I do. I just don't really care. Neither does anyone else, as it turns out."

"Fair play," he acquiesces. "Though, I'm sure Ram might remember some of it. Depending on how his head's holding up. There wasn't a lot going on in there in the first place."

"At least he didn't fall off a wave for no damn reason," Duke bites back suddenly, visibly upset.

"Shut up, Heather. Don't engage him."

"Sorry, Heather." JD seems pleased he was able to get a reaction and nothing about Duke's apology sounds sincere.

"In any case," Chandler begins again. "I'd prefer if you sit with us at lunch today for that reason. I know you usually run off with that girl, what's her name?"

"Betty?" Heather Chandler knew where I usually ate lunch? Heather Chandler has been watching Betty and I?

"Yes, Betty. The request is not extended to Betty. She can have you back later in the week once the interest in the whole ordeal has died down."

"Or you can just keep sitting with us!" Heather MacNamara chirps, earning an eye roll from Duke.

"Or that." Heather doesn't quite smile, not really, but her eyes shimmer a bit and her lips quirk up. My legs feel like Jell-o.

The one minute warning bell rings and breaks the spell Heather Chandler had managed to cast on me, even with JD present. "That's our cue. I'll see you at lunch, Veronica," Heather's arm brushes mine as she strides past and my skin tingles at the contact. As I turn to watch her part the sea of students, MacNamara slams me with another bone-crushing hug shortly after, almost causing me to drop my books.

"Bye, Veronica! Seeya at lunch!"

I can't help but giggle at her enthusiasm, a welcome relief from the tension of the last exchange. By the time I turn back to JD, he's gone, disappeared into the crowd, and I feel a strange sense of ease at his departure.


	9. Chapter 9

True to her word, it isn't until lunch that I see Heather Chandler again, despite the fact that we would normally have AP Psychology together just before the break. And thank god, because after all the mixed up feelings I've had about my sudden climb up the social ladder at school, I don't think I could handle time alone with her. She just… gets under my skin, maybe. Hops around on all my nerves.

Like she's doing _right now_, again, in the cafeteria. She's the first thing I see when I walk in because _of course _she is. Hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and flowing in long golden rivers along her left side, Heather Chandler is sitting on the centermost table in the massive room. The natural light from the cafeteria's tall windows hits her from all angles, illuminating her curls in such a way that it looks like she's _glowing_. It looks Byzantine, divine in some odd way, how all the other students are either watching her or pretending not to, their faces turned away and obscured by shadows while the Heathers sit pretty in the filtered glow of the sun. Heathers MacNamara and Duke sit on the bench on either side of her, even Duke enthralled in the same way I am, her book put away and forgotten in favor of the larger-than-life protagonist in front of her. Well, antagonist, maybe.

I've been walking towards the Heathers, straight into the lion's den, without realizing it. I only start to notice how close I am when I start to make out individual words: "beach", "very", "whiskey", "never". Something under MacNamara's breath that's enough to send all of them into an honest round of laughter, Chiclet-white teeth flashing and the snap of Chandler putting her clipboard down on the table as she shakes her head, still beaming. I'm slowly debating backing up, pulling myself out and away from Westerberg's own _L'Appel du Vide_, when Duke's eyes find mine and a distinctly-less jovial tone falls across her features. Her grin sticks around, though. Just a bit sharper.

"Well well. Looks like the stray actually came back. And we didn't even feed you." I cross my arms and slouch as the two other Heathers begin to notice my arrival. I may be one of the taller girls in our grade... but right now? I feel incredibly small.

"In my defense, I was kinda invited, so…" I slowly glance up from awkwardly staring at the ground.

"You were absolutely invited," Chandler's smooth and rich voice takes on a warmth I'm not sure I've ever heard before. She pats the bench next to her, acrylic nails clicking slightly on the table. "Get over here, bitch."

I slide into place next to MacNamara gently and ground myself in her visible joy at my arrival. "You actually came! I'm so happy!" She slings an arm around my shoulders and squeezes, just tight enough for it to hurt, but given it's MacNamara, I'm not surprised. Which, _wow_, getting used to hanging out with the _Heathers_, is just…

"Of course she came," Chandler places her clipboard on her crossed legs and taps it as she speaks. "I want her help with the lunchtime poll. She's both a topic and an assistant this week. And god knows I need a better assistant. Heather is honestly only good for being a table, and I mean, can we blame her? She spends so much time bending over–"

Heather Duke groans and rolls her eyes. "Oh my god. I'm not a fucking slut. You know that."

"I was going to say you spend so much time bending over toilet bowls, but, you know, if that's the first place your brain went to…" Chandler purses her lips and smiles at Duke, who can't help but return the favor. After a long moment, Duke breaks their gaze and dives into her backpack and retrieves and book. "Fine, whatever, you have a point. Go do your fucking poll. I'll be here."

"Wait! We haven't talked about the party on Friday yet! We have to make plans!" Heather MacNamara interjects, earning an eyeroll from Duke. "What the hell is there to plan? It's the same thing as usual. More jockstraps and wanna-be Juliets doing their best Outsiders impressions on the beach. Again." She opens her book and slams her bookmark, a thin green ribbon, down on the table with finality. "God, just gag me with a spoon already."

Heather Chandler slowly begins unfurling herself from her seat on the table. "Well, actually, things will be at least a _little_ different this time. For one, we'll have company," her heels _click_ as she slides off the table onto the linoleum floor right in front of me. "Veronica, you do have something to wear that isn't a total tragedy, right?"

"I… uh… I think... I can…" I stumble over my words, the weight of Chandler's gaze and the absurdity of the whole situation making it hard to speak. After a second I don't really have to.

"Veronica's coming with us?!" Heather MacNamara's voice is loud and crisp with none of the warmth of Chandler's but infinitely more light.

"When I said she earned the right to be a Heather, I did mean it," Chandler responds, nodding slowly. "Granted, she'll have to bag her face if she does her makeup the way we've seen lately– you _will_ be switching it up for us, yes?" I nod dumbly, mind still reeling. "Yes. Ok. We can work with that. Heather, you can help her with her makeup beforehand, I assume?"

"Yeah, absolutely!"

"Wonderful. So same deal as usual, then. Veronica, you'll be heading to Heather's house after school, Heather can give you both a ride. I'll dig up something, like, not worn by homeless people for you to put on for the event, and meet you three there later."

"Yaaaaay." Duke doesn't look up from her book and Chandler doesn't acknowledge her comment.

So, ok. The three most popular and beautiful girls at school–no, _THE_ most popular and beautiful of the popular and beautiful girls at school–just personally invited me to a party this Friday on the beach. I've seen these girls tease and taunt and tear the shit out of other students for _years_, but they've never been so… nice about it? All the signs and everything I've seen before tells me that I'm being set up, that this is just a ploy to get me in front of everyone we know so I can eat shit in the worst possible way, but somehow it just feels so… honest. I hazard a glance at Chandler and find she looks away quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiling at the ground instead. It's almost bashful and incredibly human.

"I…"

She turns back to me, cold features dusted with a sense of hope. Just then, a blur of brown and white across the cafeteria catches my eye and I realize it's Betty, smiling widely and waving like a fool from the exit near the art wing.

"Yes?"

I glance between Chandler and Betty and steel my nerves.

"I was wondering if I could bring Betty, too."

Chandler rolls her eyes, but doesn't quite stop smiling. She looks like she's about to say something, but gets cut off by someone who _isn't_ Duke, for once.

"Betty seems cool too! I really like her sketches in the art hall, she's got, like the _baddest_ drawing of the waves breaking out there now!" MacNamara offers. Neither Chandler nor I do a very good job of hiding our confusion at her sudden observation.

"I had… no idea you pay attention to the art hall…?" Chandler queries, arms slowly folding across her chest. Heather MacNamara shrugs. "It's on the way to the football fields, so I, like, swing by and check things out before practice," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Plus, like, with Dad's whole jewelry biz, I try to appreciate good work when I see it. Style and design and art are like… it's all connected, right?"

There's a long pause as we all try to figure out how to respond to MacNamara. Chandler tries, but Duke follows up before she has the chance.

"I agree. Betty's got a good eye. And before you bitch me out, I wanna make it clear I'm fine with her coming along _to the party_, but she will absolutely not be my problem beforehand. Or during. One stray to clean up is enough, thank you."

Chandler's shoulders bounce once and she clutches the clipboard to her chest. "Good! It looks like we're all in agreement then. Veronica, Betty is free to come, but she will need to find her own ride and meet you there."

I'm surprised Chandler is so willing to let Betty come, but rather than question it, I just enjoy the relief of knowing I won't be facing these three alone at the party. Shit, when did I even decide to go? I guess you can't really say no to the Heathers inviting you out… that'd be looking a gift horse in the mouth, right? Or at least bad optics? I mean, even if it's worst case scenario, Betty and I can just grab some Dr. Peppers and hang out while¬–

"Oh for fuck's sake." Heather Chandler's arms fall limply to her sides as she groans loudly. "What the hell is Courtney even wearing?"

The Heathers and I all turn to the cafeteria's main entrance, where a brightly-dressed Courtney Wills is twirling her new outfit for onlookers. Decked out in plaid pastels, it's certainly a… colorful look, but even with my lack of fashion expertise I can tell it's more gaudy than boundary-pushing.

"Well you know Heather, we shouldn't be too mean, the poor girl's clearly gone blind," Heather MacNamara says through a fit of giggles. Duke puts her book down and openly guffaws.

"Ugh, god, it just kills me, you know?" Chandler whines. "She doesn't even know the first thing about fashion, buys whatever the hell is the most expensive and throws it all together, then comes in here and prances around like she's been hand-picked to model it by Marc Jacobs himself…"

"I don't know why you let her bother you so much," MacNamara begins, shrugging slightly. "She's another wannabe. She just has money."

Chandler shifts uneasily on her feet, crossing her arms once more. "I'm not bothered. She's just so hard to watch."

Courtney Wills, or Country Club Courtney, as she's been known at Westerberg High since eighth grade, is indeed pretty hard to watch. Through elementary school, she was a Heather Chandler copycat: wearing the same style clothes, using the same slang, trying to be buddy buddy with MacNamara and Duke. It never worked, though, and her blatant attempts at social climbing only served to push people away. Sometime in middle school, her father received a major promotion at the naval base and came into quite a bit of money. Courtney immediately used her newfound riches to buy the most expensive outfits she could find and talk incessantly about her "exclusive" country club membership. The whole thing's always struck me as incredibly off-putting, especially given that all of the Heathers have country club memberships as well. They just never bother to go.

"Uh-oh," Duke shifts in her seat and smiles devilishly as Courtney makes her way further into the cafeteria, crowd moving with her towards the back where Martha Dunstock sits alone hunched over a lunch tray. "Looks like Courtney's decided it's trash day. Dumptruck better watch out!"

MacNamara cackles again with her and Chandler covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. "This is gonna be so grody. I don't know how you two can even watch. I can't deal."

After looking between the Heathers and the scene across the cafeteria for a few seconds, I have to ask: "Ok, I'm sorry, but what exactly is going on here?"

"A trainwreck," Duke replies gleefully, now leaning over the table to get a better look.

"I meant more specifically."

"Oh, right. An _absolute fucking _trainwreck."

"Thanks, Heather, you really cleared things up."

"Courtney's shit self image has gotten the best of her again, so she's gonna crush Dumptruck to make herself feel better," Chandler explains slowly, arms crossed and jaw set. "My guess is that she's gonna grab her attention and get flirty with Ram."

From the look of pain on Martha's face and Courtney's position glued to Ram's side, I suspect that part two of that plan is already in action. "She does this often?"

Chandler nods once, then turns to watch again. "She does. But that's not everything."

Another few seconds of awkward, impatient silence go by as the Heathers and I continue to watch Courtney and Ram slap each other playfully. I'm about to say something, anything, to break the tension, when I notice a distinct shift in their interactions. Kurt's gotten up and is standing next to Courtney, his massive frame nearly obscuring her from view. Her distant giggles have faded now, too, replaced with louder, deeper voices as Kurt and Ram trade jabs at her instead.

"And here we go," Duke murmurs, anticipation rolling off of her in nearly-visible waves.

Another second goes by.

"Fuck! Get off of me!" Courtney shrieks suddenly, leaping to her feet and pushing her way past Kurt to get back to her usual seat with the prep squad.

The footballers are high-fiving and grinning widely, slapping each others backs like terrifying rolling thunder.

"Nice titty grab, bro!"

Duke shakes her head and smiles too, turning back to chuckling MacNamara. "Every fucking time," she breathes out, voice laced with disbelief. Chandler looks exhausted.

"Courtney tries to piss off Dumptruck by hitting on Ram," Chandler begins again. "Which is fine until she remembers why hitting on Ram is never a good idea."

She turns to me, brows furrowed, and I can feel the disgust written plainly on my face. "Wait, Veronica, have you seriously never seen that happen before? This is, like, a weekly thing."

I shake my head. "No, Betty and I are usually in the art hall or sitting outside. I'm like, never really in here."

"Lucky you," MacNamara remarks before shoving a handful of fries into her mouth in front of a disapproving Duke. "mmmm what? I need the calories for cheer practice!"

Chandler holds up her hands. "Ok. We're way off track. One: Heather, don't speak with your mouth full. It's disgusting and Heather already gives us a chance to see lunch a second time."

MacNamara's shoulders bounce as she shrugs and swallows quickly before responding. "Totally my bad. Sorry Heather!" Duke doesn't react, engrossed in her novel once more.

"Whatever. Two: we still need to do the lunch poll. Veronica, you're with me." Before I can properly digest what's been said, long fingers lock around my wrist and blue eyes find mine. Wait, weren't her eyes _just_ grey? Is the light in here really that bad? Why do I even _care_ what color Heather's eyes–

My arm feels like it's ripped out of its socket as Heather yanks me forward. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

If you ask me, Heather Chandler's lunchtime poll is a total waste of time.

Back in 10th grade, when Heather Duke ascended to the throne of yearbook chair early, she added a new page to the bonus content section: the lunch poll. Whether or not that was a personal decision or pushed from… outside influences… remains to be determined. Regardless, the first Tuesday of sophomore year found Heather Chandler clutching a clipboard to her chest in the cafeteria, ready and willing to interrupt lunches with the most inane and bizarre questions. Some of the most memorable include:

"A pack of hungry Velociraptors invades the school. What do you do? How do you escape?"

(My personal favorite answer– Betty Finn: 'I don't know… do you think you could tame one?')

"A witch turns you into a mermaid for a week. What's the first thing you do?"

(Kurt: 'Fuck a dolphin! Also find some pirate treasure and get filthy rich.' Not too shabby, Kurt.)

"The last dream you had becomes your new reality. What's it look like?"

(Liz Hammer: 'Ah fuck man, you don't even want to know… wait, what was the question again?' Liz Hammer is nothing if not consistent.)

The list goes on and on, and the questions get worse and worse. No part of me has ever wondered what my classmates would do if Principal Gowan were to be their maid for a day, nor which character they'd love to play in a movie. But from freshman to mid-junior year, I was subjected to finding these kinds of things out.

The real kicker about all this–the part that really gets me–is that Heather Chandler clearly has no interest in the lunchtime poll herself. No effort is ever made for the answers to mean anything at all, in the end. Despite running _weekly_ for the entire duration of the school year, no more than two questions ever make it on to the final lunchtime poll page in the yearbook with a seemingly random spattering of answers. Even Nixon would laugh about how transparent the politics of the whole ordeal are.

There's a part of me that hates being involved in the poll on principle. Betty and I have spent many a lunch period laughing at the poor souls subjected to the Heather's clever new form of torture. In the past, we've even come up with slogans for their campaign. The latest? "Heather Chandler's Lunch Poll: Terrible Questions from Terrible People."

But there's also a part of me that can't help but relish the opportunity to be involved. Sure, I'm still riding the high of rising to immediate and unprecedented social status overnight, but there's also a part of me that wonders what the whole operation looks like from the inside. How seriously does Heather Chandler take this? Are these questions for real, or just some large scale joke, one far more nuanced and clever than I'd ever be able to give the Heathers credit for? And how much pot does Heather Chandler smoke before writing these questions, anyway?

"We start with the jocks. Get them out of the way. Then we usually move over to the preps, although I'm honestly not sure if I can deal with any more of Courtney's dog and pony show today…" Heather trails off, jaw set and eyes searching around the cafeteria for her next unwitting victim.

"Ok. Who else?"

Heather taps her pen to her lips pensively. "Hmm. Well, there's the finance douches and the AV club geeks. The geeks can be a real gross-out, but they can give some pretty funny answers once their erections calm down. I also need one of them to finish my math homework before the party Friday."

I roll my eyes and Heather's lips quirk upward in a small smile. "What?"

"Figures. I knew there was no way Heather Chandler was in AP Calculus on her own merit."

She shakes her head, still smiling. "I dunno, Veronica. I do most of my assignments on my own. The geeks are always around to help out in a pinch though." She leans in conspiringly, a single eyebrow raised. "I'm not a total dunce, you know. I just don't do work more than I need to."

So there it is. Heather Chandler does have a sense of humor after all. Feeling brave, I try a lighthearted jab back. "Ah, ok. So you're just lazy."

"Is it really being lazy if you know how to game the system?" She flips her hair dramatically. "Plus, this hair doesn't curl itself, you know. A girl's got to have priorities."

To my own surprise, I end up laughing with her, and fall in step easily as we head over to the finance douches. Lighthearted banter with Heather Chandler. What a Tuesday.

"Ah yes. The Chief Executive Officer of the Pretty Committee returns once more," Roger Gilbert, All-American boy scout and son of one of the most powerful brokers in the world, greets us as we arrive at the intersection of Westerburg High and Wall Street. "And you've got a new assistant in tow, I see. What an exciting time for your company!"

Heather nods politely. "Well, Roger, you know we make a point to bring on new talent when it makes itself apparent."

I can feel Roger sizing me up, rubbing his hand across the blonde stubble on his chin. His gaze feels strange… critical, but not objectifying. In the years I've had class with Roger Gilbert, I've never known him to treat girls poorly. In fact, he's almost avoided them entirely. Ironic, given his chiseled jaw and dashing good looks. Now that I'm seeing it up close, I'm starting to think his beautiful golden locks might be enough to give Heather MacNamara a run for her money.

Roger's a genetic lotto win, same as the Heathers. The rest of the finance douches, flanking Roger on both sides of the table, however, certainly are not. Not athletic enough for the football team nor nerdy enough to join AV club, the finance douches bonded over their shared hope that financial success would be enough to score them points with girls. Unfortunately, they were correct. I've never really had a problem with Roger himself, but some of the guys he associates with give me the creeps. The way they're staring Heather and I down now isn't doing much to change that.

"And it certainly has." Roger straightens his back and allows a soft smile to settle on his face. "So, Wicked Witch of the Westerberg, what poll question do you have for us denizens of the Emerald City today?"

Heather taps a finger to her chin, clipboard in hand on her hip. "Huh, that's strange. I could've sworn this was Munchkinland. I mean, _Lewis_ is here, right?"

Lewis Briggs, known only for being the shortest guy in our grade, looks like he wishes he could shrink down even further and into nonexistence.

"In any case. This one's complex, so listen up," Heather clears her throat. "You're on your way into school one day when you're hit by a speeding care. You die, and find out that you've been sent to hell. If you spend a month there, living out your worst nightmares, you can be revived and resume your life as normal. You could also send someone in your place, but they'll need to spend a year in there in order to get back out. What do you do?"

Wait.

Heather.

_What?_

Roger lets out a low whistle. "This one's pretty dark, ain't it?"

Heather shrugs. "That's what I'm here for. Asking the tough questions."

"Yeah, but they don't have to be _that_ tough."

"It makes it more interesting. Now, c'mon, I need an answer," Heather's pen is poised over her clipboard, ready to strike. "Got a late start on the poll today. Chop chop."

Roger leans back and blows air out his mouth slowly, looking down the bench at his cohort. "Well, boys? Any thoughts?" They murmur quietly amongst themselves, for a long moment.

Lewis raises his hand cautiously and Heather laughs at his shyness. "Yes, Lewis?"

He looks as pale as the white linoleum floor below, but his face shows clear determination. He's probably trying to live down Heather's jab from earlier. "Umm… yeah, I'd just. You know. Do the month. I think if I was supposed to go to hell already I'd just serve the sentence, not get in any more trouble."

Heather's red pen scratches angry notes down in a flurry. "Alright. Next!"

From the far end of the table, a boy wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a polo shirt sniffs loudly. "Actually, Lewis, I think the best decision here would be to send someone who's already had enough suffering and gotten used to it. Might be better to send Dumptruck down there for ya." A buzz of consensus sounds from the table and the boys nod slowly. "Yeah, Dumptruck might be a good call."

My stomach rolls with discomfort. Martha Dunstock does a really good job of making herself a target, but even so, I'm not sure she deserves all this vitriol.

"Alright, I'm putting the rest of you down for Dumptruck."

"I was gonna say Courtney, actually." Roger chimes in, learning back in towards the table. "That shit today was gross."

Heather cocks a brow. "Interesting. Courtney, instead of yours truly? Really, Roger? I thought we had something special."

"Oh, we do. But I figure you're off the table, given you'll be headed to Hell regardless."

She looks up from her clipboard a offers a tiny, fake smile. "That's correct. I'll be ruling it by the time you arrive, though. Now–" Heather runs her pen over her notes and tally marks. "That makes one of you taking the sentence, about five votes for sending Dumptruck down, and a single tally in Courtney's favor. Well done boys."

The finance douches turn back to their table, continuing their lunches and conversations. Roger's almost turned around, too, when Heather stops him abruptly.

"Oh, and one more thing! Roger, you'll be providing the supplies for the beach party on Friday, yes? I'd like to amend my order before you run off and grab everything."

Roger groans and his shoulders sag. "Ugh, Heather, really? I already made a run with my old man to the liquor store and got everything. Can't you find someone else to buy this stuff for you?"

Heather shrugs quickly. "Oh, I don't know, I probably could. But you've always said yourself you're great with money." She leans forward slightly, curtains of hair casting light shadows across her face. "Plus, _as per our arrangement,_ I think I'm well within my rights to make some additions to the list. Unless this is your way of telling me you're out, in which case–"

"Fuck! Fine!" Roger throws his hands up in exasperation and Heather straightens back up to her full height with a smug look across her face. "What do you want?"

"Extra bottle of tequila, something higher shelf. Sea salt and lime to go with, of course."

"Need some chips and salsa with that, too?" he bites back sarcastically.

"Actually, yes. Now that you mention it. Not sure I'll have time to eat beforehand. Good thinking, Roger!"

"I was kidding, bitch," he grumbles under his breath. Heather doesn't budge.

"And now you're not. Goodbye, boys!" Heather calls over her shoulder as she heads to the next table. "C'mon Veronica!"

Roger catches my arm as I move to follow her. "Veronica, look," he starts, voice weary and eyes dark. "I know this is new for you and that Heather seems like she's not that bad at first. But she is. She's a total nightmare, and is either collecting information to blackmail you with or already has it. And I don't know you well, but… you seem like a better person than this. Just, watch out, ok?"

All I can think to do is nod once before slipping out of his grasp to follow in her wake. Good or bad, I realize, there's a lot more to Heather Chandler than meets the eye.


	11. Chapter 11

By the time the final dismissal bell for the day rings, my brain is so fried it takes Mr. Hall, of all people, rapping his fist on my desk to get me out of class.

"Sawyer! C'mon! I've got a car service appointment this afternoon and don't have time to babysit you. Let's get a move on!" He shouts in my direction, mousey voice squeaking with strain. I scramble to get my books together and try shaking my head to knock some lingering thoughts loose. When I see the devilish smiling face of Heather Chandler behind my eyelids again, I realize it didn't work. Shit.

"M'going."

I haven't been this physically and emotionally exhausted in a very long time… if ever. It feels like ages ago that I met JD and we destroyed Kurt and Ram's surf cred in front of the whole school, but a quick glance at the wall clock and–yeah, ok, that was less than twenty-four hours ago. Not even a full day since my whole life changed.

So yeah, putting 110% into my surf game, getting like four hours of sleep, and spending the whole day as an honorary Heather was more than enough to leave me totally wiped. I guess I wiped out. Ha. Wipe out! Like, surfing. A surfing wipeout. This might be the sleep deprivation talking but c'mon, that's _gotta_ go in my diary–

I slam into the slight frame of Betty on my way out of class hard enough to knock some of her books from her arms. They scatter on the floor in a flood of sketches and pencils and I instantly feel terrible. I dive down and rush to start picking them up for her, apology at the ready, but when I look up she silences me with a warm smile and goofy crooked glasses.

"Oh, there you are! I was looking for you." She joins me on the floor and we quickly get all of her belongings back together in her bag. "Gosh, I'm glad I caught you before you left. I thought you might still be busy with the Heathers."

I offer a weary smile back and shake my head. "No, they skipped last period anyway." And thank god. I don't think I could have handled more of their antics. "Hey, Bets, why are you still hanging around?"

"I phoned my Dad and asked for the day off," Betty tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she shuffles anxiously on her feet. "Veronica, I know you're busy with life as a Heather now, but, um, I was kinda thinking you might wanna go grab some food at Splashes? And hit the beach, like we usually do. I even stopped by the store and threw your longboard in my Jeep. But, you know, it's fine if you don't–"

I cut her off immediately. "Betty, yes." I'd been planning on going home and sleeping for as long as humanely possible, but seeing how nervous Betty was…

I'm not going to let my best friend of all time worry about losing me just because other people know who I am now. Exhaustion be damned.

"Today was crazy, and it's only fair I get my best friend up to speed with everything going on." Betty full-on grins at that, and by the time we're seated at our usual table in Westerberg's least-favorite kitschy diner on the beach, I've forgotten I was even tired at all.

Splashes is a weird one. Situated right atop the crags that flank Westerberg's main beach, the diner's aggressively 50's aesthetic couldn't look more out of place. The owners, Don and Dina, have owned and operated Splashes since their 20's, back when its look was considered modern, in '56. The building has seen better days, for sure: its vibrant teal and white painted interior has a layer of yellowing to it, the vinyl of the booth seats cracked and worn over years of use. There's a huge neon sign on the front, too–"Splashes!" in giant, gorgeous cursive, all electric blues and whites–which always has at least a single letter burned out. Despite the obvious aging, it's still got a bit of a shine to it. Don and Dina still both work when they can, and host classic car shows in the parking lot once a month. They added a deck to the far side of the diner at some point in the '70's, which didn't help the look of the building but did finally take advantage of their gorgeous view. Betty and I usually stake our claim at the table closest to the edge so we can scope out surf conditions and see how other riders are faring. From the looks of it, the waves are quiet today, but some clouds in the distance give me a feeling better rides will show up later that night. The diner's empty–as it usually is when we grab an early dinner shortly after school gets out–and I relish the stress-free atmosphere in wake of today's turmoil.

"Alright. So your day with the Heathers. Spill." Betty begins, spinning the white straw in her Coke around so the ice cubes click on the glass.

I groan and rub my eyes underneath my sunglasses. "Ugh. Where to begin?"

"At the start, of course!"

I walk Betty through the day's events with the Heathers, from their initial mobbing in second period to their lunchtime banter. Betty nods along quietly as I go, listening intently.

"I am sorry about ditching you for lunch, by the way. Heather Chandler kinda just roped me in and I didn't really get a chance to think about what was going on," I admit, feeling a twinge of guilt at having accidentally ignored my best friend all day.

Betty quickly waves her hands and shakes her head. "No, no, no, Veronica, seriously, no need to apologize! I can't imagine getting that much attention from so many people so suddenly one day. And the Heathers sound so demanding!" she laughs lightly. "I'm glad you went along with it. It's nice to know what we're missing, I guess."

"Actually, Betty, this Friday we _won't_ be missing out on anything."

"What's happening this Friday?"

I shrug, beaming at the table. "Oh, you know, nothing really. Just us going to one of Kurt and Ram's big beach parties is all, nothing too crazy…"

Betty's jaw falls open in disbelief. "I'm sorry, but _what_?"

I laugh lightly at her disbelief. "The Heathers asked me to come to the party this Friday with them and I said I'd be down to go, but that I'd like for my best friend to come along, too."

Betty slides back in her chair and stares out at the waves in a daze. "Wow. A real beach party, huh? With the Heathers, too? Gosh, I have no idea what to wear… we'll have to make a point to get ready together."

I bite my lip, slowly building up the courage to let Betty know that won't be happening. "Um, actually, I think I'll need to be with the Heathers. Apparently I'm meeting with Heather MacNamara and Heather Duke to do my makeup beforehand. I'm sorry…" Another pang of guilt hits me, and it doesn't go away when Betty shrugs it off.

"That's totally fine. I mean, it was the Heathers that invited you anyway, yeah? So it's all good from my end. You can come over Thursday and help me pick an outfit, then!"

"Sounds like a plan, boss."

A second of easy silence passes before Betty leans in, chin in the palm of her hands. "Any chance one Jason Dean will be making an appearance at Friday's festivities?"

"No idea."

"Would you _like_ him to be there?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to respond.

In the incredibly short time I've known him, my opinion on JD has fluctuated wildly between total captivation and mild trepidation. On Monday, he was my knight in shining armor–well, ok, maybe he wasn't so much a knight as a Prince Charming, since I was the one who did most of the metaphorical dragon slaying anyway–but the side of him I saw in the hallway today at school before the Heathers stepped in was.. something else. And thinking back now, I can't really tell what his motivations were for being so aggressive towards Kurt and Ram while we were surfing… was he just protecting himself, or was it a good excuse to hurt people? Maybe both?

Betty must pick up on my hesitation, because she cools it with the suggestive tone when she adds, "Y'know, he sat with me at lunch today."

That catches me off guard. "He did?"

She hums. "Yeah. Met me in the art wing, I showed him some of my work. I told him I'd spotted you with the Heathers and he offered to keep me company during lunch. He seemed pretty let down you weren't there... I think he's real taken by you, honestly. Didn't he ask you out already? After the surf contest yesterday?"

My stomach flips a bit, remembering his offer, and I nod slowly.

"God, Veronica, not to be a real wannabe, but I'd miss my own birthday for a date, and JD's a total hottie." She slumps in her seat and stares wistfully at the blue sky above us. "He seems like a nice guy, too."

I elect to not fill Betty in on the weird interaction I had with him in the hallway, as I'm still processing it myself. Plus, maybe the vibes were just weird because I was too in my head… though Heather didn't seem to like him much, either. Granted, she doesn't really like many people. "I… yeah, I guess he does. Maybe I'll give him a call sometime." And speaking of Heather…

"Oh, Betty, you're never gonna guess what the lunchtime poll was!"

Betty's smiling again and shaking her head, clearly appreciative of the topic change. "No, and if I do end up able to guess it right, you're gonna need to lock me up, 'cause I've gone totally mental."

I have to run Heather's convoluted question by Betty twice before she understands what I'm asking. She pauses for a beat, then asks quietly, "Wait, didn't Heather tell you _earlier today_ that _you'd_ be the topic of the poll?"

I roll my eyes. "Yeah. I asked her about that too. Get this: her response was 'You absolutely _were_ the topic! It's very important that no one offered to damn you. Sometimes not being talked about is just as important as being the main event.'"

"Oh my god. And here I thought Duke was the pretentious Heather."

"Right?!"

Our food comes and goes, but the easy conversation between us never slows down. While today's social interactions felt like constantly walking on eggshells, my friendship with Betty feels like solid ground, a safe port in a storm. She marvels at Courtney's lunchroom cruelty with me, expresses concern and helplessness upon hearing of Martha's continued suffering: "She's not making it easy on herself, but neither is anyone else. Tragic stuff, really." Ever the bashful arist, a slight blush rises in her cheeks when I inform her of Heather MacNamara's appreciation of her sketches. We talk about everything… well, almost everything. Betty seems open to the idea of the Heather's being a bit more multidimensional than we initially thought, but I still feel hesitant to bring up some of the interactions I've had with Heather Chandler. Out of everything in my life that yesterday's events have affected–my social status, my weekend plans, my energy levels–it's my perception of Heather Chandler that has changed the most. There's still a distance to her, a level of disconnect that manifests more on an emotional level than a physical one. She's there, sure, but is she actually _there_? And, sure, maybe I'm crazy, but sometimes, in the way she looked at me, or the tone of her voice when we were away from the other Heathers, away from everyone else, that distance to close a bit. It gives me goosebumps to even think about.

Indeed, my newfound sympathy for the devil is something I should discuss first with my other best friend: the ocean.

By the time we've finally reached a lull in the conversation, the sun's on its way down and Betty's exhausted, even after a post-dinner cup of coffee. I should be wiped, too, but the more I think about it, the more I can't imagine doing anything but heading to the beach with my longboard and getting a nighttime few rides in.

Betty bids me goodbye and drops me off at Westerberg's main beach, the venue of yesterday's competition. The beach isn't quite empty just yet: a few small groups dot the shoreline, huddled around bonfires or lying together to watch the sun go down. For the second time in my life, I kick out into welcoming waves of the ocean in public.

With no major swells and only my trusty longboard on hand, I don't offer much of a show for the beachgoers tonight. And anyway, this session is more for me than anyone else. Sitting on my board as the sun throws pastel beams of reds and pinks and yellows across the sea in front of me, I reflect on the confidence surfing has helped me build. Even when I was just a no-name anybody at school, I knew I could come out with my board and become a _somebody_. That Heather Chandler could rule the halls of Westerberg High, but that the waves would always be mine.

As I drop onto the face of the first overhead wave of the night, I run my hand through the water wall behind me and wonder absently if Heather Chandler has ever tried surfing. I think Heather MacNamara would have, surely–she's certainly athletic enough to paddle out and get herself upright, and cheerleading requires some level of balance–but maybe Heather Chandler would actually enjoy it, if she tried. The more waves I grab, the more I catch myself daydreaming about what it'd be like to teach her to surf, of taking her down from her throne and bringing her into my kingdom for a change. We could hit Splashes afterwards, even, if she'd be down to try some diner food. Grab some burgers and soda while we watch the sun set, hair and skin sticky with salt and sweat. It'd be a nice evening, really. A good chance to get to know her, to figure out who she really is, under all that secrecy. Honestly, it sounds like a fantastic date–

Wait, fuck.

I fall clumsily off my board backwards and feel the ocean crash around me, ears ringing and eyes stinging with salt, but it doesn't really matter, because bringing myself up for air is something I can do on autopilot at this point.

And my brain has more important things to focus on, anyway, like the fact that I totally just spent a few hours idly fantasizing about taking Heather Chandler on a date.

I tell myself my heart is racing from physical exhaustion alone as I paddle back beyond the surf zone and escape the breaking waves for a moment. The sun's down now and a full moon has risen in its place, casting a while shimmery glow across the inky blackness of the ocean. I can see the neon sign for Splashes illuminated in the distance, and the dotted golden lights of my neighborhood behind me and up the hill. It's beautiful, reminding me of why I got into night surfing in the first place, but it doesn't do a thing to soothe my nerves, because I can't help but imagine that _Heather Chandler_ would find it beautiful, too.

I lie back on my longboard, defeated, and look up at the sky instead. A thousand stars look back at me, and I imagine they're laughing at my awful bail and pathetic emotional mess.

I finally meet a cute guy who might be interested in me when I realize I've got feeling for the least accessible mega bitch on the planet. Fucking figures.

A loud splash behind me causes me to jump a bit, but I quickly realize it's just a fish out feeding at night. It's not uncommon for me to see a lot of aquatic activity at this time of night, especially out where the waves aren't breaking. I pull my legs onto my board, too, making sure they don't start to nibble, when I hear another fish jump, closer this time.

I zone out again for another few minutes when I notice the splashes getting increasingly frequent. I sit upright and scan the horizon, where I see numerous large fish now jumping out of the water and swimming just along the surface. There's definitely more activity than usual, and probably a good sign that something's up.

I'm settling into a more comfortable position on my board to paddle back in when I see it.

A massive grey tail–six feet across with sharply pointed tips glistening in the moonlight–slams _hard_ into the water near the crags. The splash makes tiny waves that ripple out and soon after, more fish are jumping out of the water and racing away. I'm practically paralyzed with fear.

I've known there were Great Whites in our area since I was old enough to surf, but I've never seen one while I was surfing, never this close. They were practically myths: monsters that I knew existed in the vague and meaningless way that I know what the surface of the moon looks like. A fact of life, but nothing I'd ever see myself.

I bolt for the shore, paddling sloppily and clutching my board as hard as I can. Sweat and salt water are in my eyes and my muscles are screaming like hell but I keep driving, pushing back to the comfort of solid ground. I lie on my board as a wave grabs me and throws me ashore, not even bothering to ride it in. The wave pushes sand and shells up my swimshirt but no matter, I'm back now, and I end up doubled over as I try to catch my breath. By the time my breathing finally steadies, I slowly stand up and scan the horizon for more shark activity. Agonizing minutes go by before I see it again: the massive grey fin and tail arching into the sky before crashing back down again. I've never seen a shark swim like that–it seems more dolphin-like in its movement–but there's no questioning that tail. It's a vertical one, like what sharks and fish have, as opposed to the horizontal one on dolphins and whales. I figure a close call with a shark is probably a right of passage for surfers, and let out a quiet laugh as I grumble, "Baby's first shark encounter."

I gather up my things and balance precariously on my skateboard, surfboard in one hand and bag in the other, as I begin the journey home. My whole body aches as I push towards home and I dream of a hot shower to wash the day and the sand away. When I finally reach my doorstep, I concede that maybe I'm not the sole ruler of the ocean–Heather Chandler may rule Westerberg with the other Heathers, but I've got Betty Finn sitting in my court. And, now, a shark.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite my best efforts, I do end up sleeping through Linear Algebra again on Wednesday. Mr. Carlo shows incredible patience for my bullshit when I swing by in a flurry after class, complaining of ongoing migraine headaches and asking for make-up assignments to pad my grade. I'm sure the excellent rapport I've built up with him over the years helps soften the blow, but still–linear algebra is a class I've been looking forward to taking for the entirety of my high school career. There's only five of us in this year's course, five brave souls who battled through an accelerated calculus class junior year to have the chance to take the most challenging and intriguing math class Westerberg had to offer.

But then, life with the Heathers is pretty challenging and intriguing, too.

I'm pondering my newfound social status for the umpteenth time when I manage to find JD in the hallway before second period.

"Hey."

He turns slowly to face me, weak smile playing upon his lips.

"Hey yourself, V."

I let out a quick breath as I build my confidence for the conversation I know is coming. This time, _for real_, I owe this guy an apology, and I'm gonna let him know exactly that.

"JD, I owe you an apology. I think we got off on the wrong foot… I didn't mean to ditch you for the Heathers yesterday, in English or in lunch, really. I just kinda… got carried away. Wrapped up in the whole… everything, I guess."

He laughs a weak laugh, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "On the contrary, I think we got off on the best foot. It's the second step that got all messed up."

I purse my lips, unsure how to respond.

"But, lucky for you, I'm always down to take another one," he offers, shrugging. "A whole walk even," his eyes meet mine. "especially if it's a walk with you."

I haven't dated very much in my lifetime. Only a few boys here and there, and nothing too serious. Only ever small crushes and uneventful kisses goodnight that seem like cruel parody of the love stories I've read about. Something Shakespeare would shake his head at in disappointment.

And he's hot, sure, but I realize in that moment that JD's got a real sense of romance about him, too. The meaningful eye contact, the whispered asides for only my entertainment… it's like nothing I've seen from any of the other guys I've been with. Middle School Veronica would be losing her mind right about now, actively drooling over him in the least attractive way possible and asking me _why the hell haven't I gone on a date with this guy yet?!_

It's a question I know the answer to, but I can't even bring myself to think about it when I'm not on my surfboard, safe and free on the ocean. I'm not ready for it to be _real_ yet.

"And", he adds, leaning back a bit. "I think we both kinda messed up yesterday, at least a little bit. Not my best showing, that." He winches a bit and I know we're both thinking about running into Heather in the hallway.

"I'm willing to call it even, if you are."

He extends his hand and I grasp it, shaking firmly once. "It's a deal."

We walk into English together after a short chat, immediately earning looks from all the other students. The Heathers, in particular, are glaring us down like birds of prey. Even Heather MacNamara isn't smiling.

"Duty calls," I nod in the direction of the Clone Club and JD takes his seat near the door, as far away from them as possible.

"It's awful work, but I guess someone's got to do it," he grumbles.

I giggle as I head over to the Heathers, anxiety blooming in the pit of my stomach as I feel Heather Chandler's eyes follow me to my seat.

I turn around to say hello when long, icy fingers wrap around my chin lightly and I find myself face to face with the piercing blue eyes of Heather Chandler. She arches a single brow and turns my face side to side. A shock of heat flows to my cheeks and I know I'm blushing furiously. Slow seconds go by and it takes a moment for me to realize she's released me, though her eyes are still locked on mine.

"Still no haircut? You really need to get on that," Ah, shit. I'd been hoping she was kidding. "God Veronica. You're lucky your bone structure is saving you from being a total and complete mess."

"Your blush looks great though! Very natural! Nice job!" Heather MacNamara says cheerily from my side, throwing me a casual thumbs up.

"Rest of your makeup is total shit though. Can't even tell you're wearing it," Heather Duke grumbles out from under her book.

I decide against telling her I forgot about makeup today and choose instead to focus on getting my heart rate down. I notice as I'm pulling my notebooks that Heather's frigid touch has drawn goosebumps all along my arms, and I pray to any god willing to listen that they pay me no mind for the rest of the class.

I get my wish, at first.

The discussion drops, but Heather Chandler starts loudly chewing gum a few minutes into class, making a point to pop it whenever I shift in my seat. It feels incredibly targeted–I don't think I've ever even seen her chew gum before–and makes me jump more than I'd care to admit to.

I turn around to ask her to stop and catch her leaning on her desk lazily, head in her hand and huge pink bubble ready to go. Her eyes narrow seductively over the top of the giant bubble, quietly daring me to say something.

"Heather–"

_Pop._

I watch as Heather slowly rakes the gum off her crimson red lips with her too-white teeth that sharpen into a smile.

"What?"

"Can you stop?"

"Hmm," She keeps chewing for a second, feigning consideration. "Sure. I'll spit it out in a sec."

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.

"Thanks," I mumble out quickly. I spin back to the front, a flash of newfound confidence rolling through my veins.

So, ok, I'm still not all that cool or fancy or whatever, but at least Heather Chandler _listens_ to me! I can ask her for a favor and she'll actually consider it! Maybe that means something? It seems to dangerous to hope that she sees me as anything more than a pawn, someone with something more to offer than just their fifteen minutes of fame to capitalize on, something other than just a novelty act. But then, I've also never seen the Heathers acknowledge someone who wasn't one of their own the way they have–

A whoosh of air sounds quietly behind me and I feel something sticky and warm cling to the back of my neck. I can tell what it is without even asking, but the sharp giggles of the Heathers and devilish grin that plays on Duke's face next to me confirms it. I reach behind to my hair and fumble around for a second before my fingers close around a huge mass of chewing gum. I tug experimentally and my scalp stings, hair pulling tight.

"Oh no," Heather Chandler coos from behind me. "That's a bad one. Looks like you might have to cut it out."

"Well, hey, it's not all bad," Heather Duke chimes in, whisper-shouting back at us. "It's an excellent time for a haircut!"

The sadistic smiles of the Heathers vaporize all of my confidence instantly and cold-hard fear settles in its place instead. Just when I'd thought I found my rhythm with the Heathers, I'm proven totally wrong, and I feel like a fool for ever having thought I'd made it.

I bolt upright in my seat, books and bag gathered loosely in my arms. The sudden movement causes other students to stare in my direction, and the weight of their gaze feels suffocating.

"Bathroom," I answer to Mrs. Lester's unspoken query as I blow by her on my way to the door.

"Ah– oh! Yes, go ahead and get… um. Get that taken care of, Veronica."

I stop by JD's desk just before I step into the hallway and turn sharply back to face the classroom. Heather Chandler's eyes are narrowed with amusement as they find mine. I hold her gaze as I lean down towards him.

"Tonight works for our date. Pick me up at seven thirty." I'm louder than I meant to be in saying that, but no matter. I don't really care what most of these other students think about JD and I, anyway. Heather Duke kicks off a fresh round of laugher, but any trace of entertainment in Heather Chandler's eyes is long gone.

If anything, she looks hurt.

A long moment goes by and her jaw sets firmly. I use my last bit of emotional fortitude to break Heather's gaze and storm out to find Betty.


	13. Chapter 13

"I mean really! Fuck Heather Chandler!" Betty's voice, shrill with ire, echos piercingly through the open halls of the art wing. I feel a pull on my hair and the whispering crunch of scissors. "You can't just do this to people!" The pull is released and I wince as I watch another piece of my hair glide like a feather down to the floor.

"Be careful with those scissors, Bets, please."

"I'm paying attention to what I'm doing, don't worry. I just–" Betty swings around to the front of my chair, "I just hate how yesterday you were all excited to be part of the 'in' crowd, and today, we're cutting gum out of your hair." She looks down at her smock, now covered in more hair strands than paint blobs, and sighs. "I don't know, girl. I guess I had hope."

Heather Chandler's laugh, honest and clear in the cafeteria yesterday rings in my head, and I feel a frown start to tug at my lips.

"Yeah. Me too."

"Well, as much as it pains me to say it, you did, like, totally need a haircut. Those dead ends? We're lucky you aren't a necromancer, you would've had enough to raise an army."

I raise my hands in submission. "I'm clean. If you check my locker, you won't find a grimoire. And definitely not the blood of a virgin. No candles, either, nor chalk for drawing pentagrams."

Betty smiles and bops me on the head with the handle of the scissors. "Y'know, with your whole surfing gimmick, I almost have the pleasure of forgetting what a total nerd you are."

Even with the dropcloth Betty gave me to serve as a smock, it's surprising how much hair I have to wipe off onto the floor. The sea of strands at my feet seems… a bit larger than I would have expected for just a quick clean up. Wait, did Betty really…?

"Hey, Bets?"

"'Sup?" Betty shouts back over the running tap of the sink in one of the studios.

I shake my head experimentally and feel my curls lightly glide against my chin. Yeah, that's new.

"Did you just get the gum out, or did you…?"

"Whole new haircut. Sorry girl, I saw the opportunity and just kinda went for it."

A wave of fear hits me and I'm running past her trying to find a mirror. This is not what I signed up for.

"Betty! What the hell did you do?!"

Betty laughs lightly as she shakes hair out of her smock into the trash bin. "Geez, Veronica! Take a chill pill! It looks great on you, promise!"

I slouch into a chair in defeat, head in my hands. "Ugh. I'm revoking your best friend title."

"No, you're not. Give me one second, Drama Queen." I hear Betty rummaging around in her bag and shuffling over to me.

"Veronica?"

The second I glance up, the click of a shutter sounds and I'm back to frowning again. "Betty come on…" I reach for the Polariod printing out of the camera Betty's holding, but she swats my hand away. "No, you come on. I gave you a fantastic hair cut and have a feeling this picture's mega hot, to boot. You're being a total spazz."

She fans it to dry for a second before giving it a once over and slowly nodding in approval. "Yep. Hate to break it to you, Veronica," she drops the photo in my lap unceremoniously, "but you're kinda hot."

I don't recognize myself at first.

Lit from massive wall of windows behind her, the Veronica in the photo looks almost heavenly. The waves in my hair I'd always tried fighting to keep straight are tamed now, working with the flow of my part instead of fighting it. The natural highlights I've picked up through years in the sun roll into smooth loops that skirt along my chin and emphasize my jawbone. I have bangs, now, too, that curl naturally upward and cascade down the left side of my face. It looks styled, even, but I know that Betty's only used crafting scissors for this whole process.

"I…"

"I went for Ripley, by the way," Betty adds with a bashful shrug. "Y'know, Sigourney Weaver's character in Alien? That haircut she was rocking in Aliens we both said we liked when we snuck in to see it a few years back, so I figured-"

I cut Betty off with a hug. "You did an amazing job, Bets. Really. Just… absolutely incredible."

"Well," she pulls back with a parting squeeze. "I am an artist, in more ways than one."

I look down at the picture, still in my hand. It's still hard to wrap my head around the fact that the girl in the photo is me. I hold it out to Betty, lips pursed into a smile. "Keep this one. For evidence of your superpowers."

" I was thinking it might make a good oil painting, actually. It's got that 'Ugh, I'm so bored and beautiful and I totally don't care' feeling to it that lots of the classical pieces have."

"Was this haircut really free or am I paying you with my patience?"

"Both, I'd say."

We walk together slowly to the exit of the art wing, admiring the natural light cascading through the massive windows around us and illuminating the student pieces on the walls. I've seen her works tons of times before, but when we get to Betty's section, I'm still somewhat taken aback by how beautiful her artwork is.

Though she considers herself an artist that primarily works in ebony pencil, Betty's greatest works have been in vibrant color. Always revolving around nature, she first broke away from grayscale by painting lots of plants and insects: tiny, ultra-detailed things that reminded me of field reference material. While I was at failing aerials at the cove Freshman year, Betty was in the forest, just out of sight, pressing flowers and catching bugs in jars to study and release. She's taken down most of her work from that period now, but one piece-a three part study on a blue dragonfly- still hangs proudly on display. She moved to colored pencils next, but hated them. I've never even touched the things and still grimace when I hear them listed as a medium, because it only serves to bring to mind long nights on the phone with a panicking Betty, offering moral support as she slaved away at projects that never quite turned out the way she would have liked. Not a single work from that year makes an appearance on her showcase wall.

But junior year? Junior year, Betty discovered oils.

Expensive, pretentious, and difficult, oil paint seemed totally at odds with Betty's core principles as an artist. Regardless, she tried them out once and was instantly in love. I remember when she drove us back to the surf shop after school that day, rambling on and on about how easily oils blended and the luscious landscapes she could build with them. I smiled and nodded and understood nothing she was saying until we pulled up to the shop and she grabbed the canvas she'd been working on to show me and yeah, wow. It was a gorgeous rendering of SharkFinn Surf at sunset, something you'd see in a dream where all the colors are cranked way up. Her style isn't photorealistic so much as it is expressive- you could practically feel the rough, dry wood paneling of the shop just by looking at it. It doesn't bring you to a place so much as bring the feelings of that place to you.

The SharkFinn Surf painting lives at the shop now, but Betty's made a great number of incredible additions to her wall since then. The main thrust of her art this past summer focused on the ocean. Mostly sunsets over calm waters, but Betty's got a few sketches up now that seem much more dynamic. There's a larger, unfinished one in ebony pencil that really grabs me and reminds me of my conversation with the Heathers yesterday at lunch.

"Hey, Betty, I think this is the one Heather MacNamara said she liked."

She slows a bit. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I know the Heathers aren't… trustworthy, at the moment, but I do think she meant it."

Betty nods once and takes a long look at the sketch. Finally, she slowly asks, "I guess it's not bad, is it?"

I wrap my arm around her shoulder and steer us towards the exit.

"Why, if I hadn't gotten my hair cut, I'd say it was the most beautiful thing in here!"

She laughs so hard she doubles over and has to push her glasses back up. "Watch it, Sawyer! Make me angry enough and next time I've got those scissors in my hands, I'll be trying out abstract art on you." She throws the Jeep keys my way and I catch them on reflex alone. "The BlackFinn's in the back of the Jeep, so take my car and go surf. Skip some class or whatever. You've earned it. Just come back to get me when school lets out."

The thought of being back out on the BlackFinn releases a tension in my muscles I didn't know I had.

"Just don't burn yourself out too much. We need you full of energy for your date tonight!"

Nevermind, the tenson's back again. I have no idea if I asked Jason Dean on a date tonight while storming out of English because I was legitimately interested in him or because I thought that it would piss off Heather Chandler, but I guess it doesn't matter now. Betty skips back into the art hall after a casual wave goodbye and I swallow hard.

Ready or not, I have a date with Jason Dean at seven thirty. Fuck.


End file.
